


Heartlessly Cursed

by Mother_of_Monsters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beauty & the Beast AU, Dog!John, Magic AU, Magical Realism, Mrs Hudson is a Witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Monsters/pseuds/Mother_of_Monsters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a special heart to befriend a man cursed to be a sociopath.<br/>A loose interpretation of 'Beauty and the Beast'.</p><p>**Please do not redistribute my works to other sites such as goodreads or ebookstree without my express permission**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning at the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! Ever have one of those half-formed story ideas suddenly burst into the forefront of your mind and refuse to leave you alone until you start writing? Yeah, that's pretty much what happened here. Special thanks for this story goes to my fuzzy little muse, Reilly. I hereby present you with a Sherlockian interpretation of the fable 'Beauty and the Beast'.
> 
> Again, I know it isn't necessary, but I don't own any of these characters, so please no one sue me?

Once upon a time, as most things like these tend to begin, there was a happy little boy named John, who lived with his family in a small town not far from the smog-infested streets of the great city of London. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Watson, and their daughter, Harriet, loved the little boy with all their hearts. But love alone does not a family make, and it would not be nearly enough to forge the strength little John would require in his later years.

So, as is often the way of things in the train wreck of life, a tragedy befell the Watson family on John's tenth birthday. Well, a tragedy in the mind of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, by any rate. John couldn't have really cared much either way, considering he was still too young to understand. You see, Harriet, who was sixteen at the time, had just revealed to everyone at the dinner table that she was a lesbian. Poor Grandmother Watson would never recover from the shock, and Mr. and Mrs. Watson were so appalled they threw the girl out the door like a sack of old, rotted potatoes.

Things were never the same in the Watson household after that. John became ever more quiet and reserved, drifting away from his friends. In his studies, he was more diligent than ever, which was why no one questioned his lack of social contacts. Being small for his age helped him achieve such success at self-effacement, he became nearly invisible, and no one took any notice of how much damage was being done to him.

It was quite by accident that anyone found out at all. If John had been able to button his uniform shirt just a little faster, and had the physical education teacher not chosen that exact moment to pass by the showers, no one might ever have found out anything at all, and I would have no story to tell. Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be), Mr. Hurst had chosen just the right moment to do a cursory check of the locker rooms, and caught a painful glimpse of the bruises on John's chest.

Word spread through the little town like water through pipes, trickling into every home, until it reached Harry's drink-deadened ears. It was half-past noon on the following Friday, and Harry had just discovered how to open a beer bottle cap with her teeth, when Clara came downstairs to the flat with the news. John, Clara related, had been taken to the hospital to awake a social worker, along with Mrs. Watson who was awaiting a stomach pumping, and Mr. Watson had been incarcerated.

After sucking down her beer in record time, Harry snatched the keys from Clara's hand and bolted out the door. Sure, she and John weren't exactly the best of mates, but he was still her little brother, damn it, and there was no way she would let him be shunted into foster care. She would take him home to the flat in Clara's mother's basement, and keep him safe until their mother was recovered.

John was quietly removed from the hospital and, since Harry was an alcoholic (no matter how she argued to the contrary) with no job, he was placed in the care of Clara's mother, Ms. Baptiste. She was a kind and lovely woman, a widow, and she treated John very well, almost as if he was her own son. Under her watchful eye, and with the support of Harry and her girlfriend, the quiet little boy grew into a steady, patient young man. Broad of shoulder, though still short of stature, John grew up handsome in his own, friendly way, and Ms. Baptiste complimented him often on his figure, bearing, and air of patient confidence. No one (least of all John, Clara, and Harry) ever expected Ms. Baptiste to try to seduce her stepson when he turned seventeen. Personally, John was horrified. Don't get him wrong, she was a wonderful mother, but there was no way he would ever be attracted to her. If pressed, he would answer that she simply wasn't his type. (Just between us, though, he still wasn't really sure what his type was, or if he even had one at all.)

When it finally got to be too much, even for John's immense store of patience, the young man slipped out of the house in the dead of night. Harry and Clara drove him into London, where he booked himself a one-way ticket to Afghanistan via enlistment in the British Army. It was the only way he could think of to safely break away. The Army would give him a purpose, and training, and maybe even a future, provided only that he prove himself capable of soldiering.

Luckily enough, John's temperament was perfect for the job, and his commanding officer found the prefect niche for his steady hands and tireless patience - Surgeon. When a notice was received that the 5th North Umberland Fusiliers had lost a medic, John got shipped out within the day. Finally, he had a chance to make something of himself, to be his own person, and he had never been so content in his life.

Life as a soldier was hard, especially in the beginning. John's confidence, which had been unshakeable during training, took a number of hard, humiliating blows until he stopped playing strictly by the book. Once he started improvising, every man of his unit who landed beneath John's gentle, inventive hands would have sworn a blood oath he was indispensable. With those men at his back, John Watson, MD was in his element as he had never been before.

Once promoted Captain, it seemed there was nothing on Earth that could slow John down. But there are more things in life than those on Earth, and a tiny bit of magic is all it takes to turn a near-miss into a sure-hit. When one a terrorist bullet blew apart the majority of John's left shoulder, he was sure it was the beginning of the end. The pain alone turned his brain into a useless lump, and he passed out on the body of a man he had been trying to save.

He woke in a hospital in Kandahar a week and a half later, his blood so pumped full of painkillers he could barely see straight. The doctors told him he had a terrible infection, and they would have to perform surgery in order to correct the damage done to his tissue. Only one man, another battle medic, had the stomach to tell Captain Watson the worst of the news - he would be sent home, an invalid, as soon as the fever had left him.

Black despair, a feeling so powerful it turned every muscle in his body into little more than dead weight, settled into his very bones. John did not want to return home as another injured veteran, and no amount of touting in regards to his bravery and heroism by his men or his superiors could change his opinion. No matter how many medals his superiors forced upon him, John still pleaded to remain. He wanted to stay in the dusty, blood-soaked sands of the desert, not to be shipped back to the grimy streets of home.

But shipped home he was, back to the damp gray wetness of English weather, and the ignorant, selfish masses of the cement streets of London herself. Not even the sight of his sister could fill the gaping hole where his sense of usefulness had resided. Even Clara's extremely warm welcome was drowned out by the feeling of loss sloshing around in his chest where his heart had once been.

If John thought that was the worst of what would befall him, he was sadly mistaken. After his shoulder had sufficiently healed enough for him to leave the hospital, Ms. Baptiste arrived in his room and locked the door behind her. John harshly turned down her poor attempt at securing him once more as a lover, which she failed to disguise as a simple gesture of succor. In no uncertain terms did he make it very clear that he was angered and appalled at her intrusion into his life, and he warned her that, if she persisted, he would be more than glad to do whatever was legally possible to keep her as far away from his person as was humanly possible.

Fury turned her lovely countenance into that of a twisted hag, and in a loud, piercing voice Ms. Baptiste delivered five unintelligible words into the air. Fire blossomed in John's frame, like tiny vines tearing at the cracks in an old wall, as his skeleton began to twist and crack, collapsing and rearranging to the will of potent, ancient magic. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck as he continued to transform, she dangled him out the window of the room and hissed in his face. A violent shake, one that knocked his head against the window frame, silenced his gurgling cries of fear, rage, and pain.

These were the last words he heard before darkness claimed his consciousness:

"We could have been the perfect combination of power and strength, but then you ruined it all by running away. I curse you now with the form of a lowly beast, and to a life of humiliation and despair. May you rot inside your shell for the rest of your pitiful life."


	2. Impounded and Redistributed

Mrs. Amelia Turner's Shelter for Stray and Neglected Dogs was a rather noisy little brick building full of yapping, wiggling dogs eager to find new homes. With the holidays just peeking over the horizon, there were people bustling purposefully in and out of the old, beige halls nearly non-stop from open to close. Dear Mrs. Turner was almost positive she'd have an empty house by Christmas. It had been nearly 4 years since that had last happened, and she couldn't have been more delighted with the thought.

Or at least she was delighted until she remembered the sad little lump curled up in cage 21. For the third time that day, she peeked in on the unmoving round of fur occupying the far left corner of the kennel. Nothing could tempt the poor old dear from its tight ball; not the sweetest treat or the chewiest bone. Amelia despaired of ever finding someone to adopt the scraggly thing, which in her opinion was just not right. Here was a perfectly good dog, from what she had seen, but people just couldn't seem to get over its odd looks.

To be fair, it  _was_  a strange amalgam of different breed characteristics. It had the compact body of an Australian Shepherd or a Border collie, though it was a little longer in the legs. The end of its fluffy, sickle-shaped tail was a little crooked, as if it had been damaged at some point, which made the tip wag one more time than the base. Floppy ears, like those of a Pointer, gave its face a puppy-like character. Shaped like that of a Foxhound, its muzzle was full of razor sharp teeth and a jaw muscle powerful enough to crack through the supposedly indestructible toys she stocked in the pantry.

With a proper bath, it would probably have a splendid golden hue to its long-haired coat, though right now its color was closer to brindle. The back legs were a splotchy mix of gold, fawn, and topaz, compared to the uniform color of its body. Its nose was liver colored, as were the pads of its big, webbed paws and claws. Then there was the unfortunate patch of mottled white and liver fur over its left shoulder. Mrs. Turner knew that underneath it was the hard tissue of a traumatic scar, and she felt bad that the silken coat had grown out in such a color, as it drew unwanted attention and questions she couldn't answer. An American Eskimo dog in its genetic history had given it the heavily furred ruff around its neck, which, when bristled up, looked like a lion's mane.

What made the quiet beast unique were the highly intelligent, wide eyes set in its face. When people questioned her about their color, she simply answered 'blue', but they were so much more complicated then that. Tiny chromatic mirrors to its soul, Amelia swore those eyes changed color whenever it felt emotion. Watching the little children chatting over this or that adorable pup, they turned a sad sort of midnight blue. If a parent spoke too harshly, a hint of silvery steel glittered inside a hard, slate blue as its lips lifted. Sometimes, Mrs. Turner just wished someone would look a little closer into its somber little face and meet those curious eyes.

At least it had a name, unlike many of the dogs dropped off at her doorstep. A pair of silver tags was attached to the dark metal collar it wore. A strange thing, that collar; short of cutting it off with a pair of bolt cutters, there didn't seem to be any way to remove it. The only thing written on the first tag, which was soldered to the collar, was the words 'Cptn John H. Watson, MD'. There was no address or phone number anywhere on it, and according to the police it had no microchip. On the other tag was a list of vaccinations and dates, courtesy of Mrs. Turner. She called him 'Watson', which he answered to readily enough, although he also answered just as easily to 'Doc' or 'John' or sometimes 'Captain'. Unlike most other dogs, though, he didn't answer to anything anyone would normally call their pet. 'Boy' was ignored, as was 'dog', 'buddy', 'sweetie' or any variation of endearment one could think of. As if he thought he was far too smart to be considered anything but his name.

Just before closing up shop, Mrs. Turner heard the front bell jingle and made her way back up to the lobby, shaking her head sadly. Standing before the counter, bundled snugly in a wine-red overcoat, and wearing a most becoming faux beaver hat, was Amelia's favorite person in the world (besides her dear married tenants).

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hello. Mrs. Turner! Just dropping by to see if you'd like to join me for dinner tomorrow."

"I would be delighted, Martha. I have a feeling I'll be next to empty tomorrow, God willing."

"Only 'next to' empty dear?" Mrs. Hudson sounded very sad, "why not 'completely' empty?"

Giving a wry smile to her friend, Mrs. Turner beckoned for the older woman to follow. "Just one sad little hold out."

Beckoning for her friend to follow, Amelia led the way back to the mostly empty cages. Both women sedately approached kennel 2l and peered in at the unmoving dog. It didn't even raise its head to acknowledge them. Mrs. Hudson peered a little harder, and a small, knowing smile lit her wrinkled face.

"Amelia, dear, I would be delighted to take the dear old thing off your hands."

So surprised was she at this announcement, Mrs. Turner let out a cry of joy, which startled the high-strung Corgi in the kennel behind them. It started to bark loudly, and for the first time in two days the head of poor Watson in kennel 21 rose up. He gave a decidedly reproachful look to the Corgi, which snapped its mouth shut so quick the click of its teeth echoed in the corridor. Duty done, Watson dropped his head back to his paws and let out a huffing sigh through his nose.

"Oh, Martha, come with me and we'll grab up everything you need! I'm so happy you've decided to take the poor little dear. He's been breaking my heart for 3 years!"

"Don't you worry, Amelia, I'll give him a nice new home. I've been feeling oddly lonely since my poor husband went away." Mrs. Hudson gave her friend a soft smile, "It'll be nice to have someone to talk to."

Retiring to the small office behind the counter, Amelia presented all the paperwork her friend would need to sign. Martha was only too happy to scribble her name along the dotted lines. While she finished initialing, Mrs. Turner pulled out a smart, olive leash, part of the stash she kept for the seasonal rush.

"Will you be taking him home today, Mrs. Hudson?"

"If I may."

"Consider it settled! Oh, thank you, dear Martha. You have made this the happiest moment of my whole career."

Mrs. Hudson laughed gaily and followed her friend back to the kennel. "I hope you have many, many more of those, my friend."

Amelia opened the door of kennel 21 and excitedly said, "Come along, John, dear, you've got yourself a new home!"

That strong head with those beautiful eyes rose up slowly, as if he was completely incredulous at such a proclamation. He looked back and forth between Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson for a long moment, blinking confusedly, and then let out another sighing huff before struggling to his feet. Limping slightly from stiffness, he sedately approached Mrs. Turner before sitting down and waiting to be leashed.

"Such a little gentleman you are, Watson." Amelia gave him a fond scratch behind his ears as he stood again. "You're going to go back to Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson here, and live happily ever after."

A little noise that sounded suspiciously like a cynical grunt puffed out of his throat as Watson walked shoulder to knee with Amelia out of the cage. Mrs. Hudson bent down, holding out a hand towards his nose as if waiting for him to sniff. Instead of sniffing, he sat and lifted a paw onto her hand, just to be contrary. Martha laughed, shaking the offered paw before accepting the leash.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Turner. I shall call upon you tomorrow evening if convenient. I just hope the snow holds out till after dinner!"

"I agree!" Embracing her friend, Amelia waved goodbye and bent to the task of readying to close up the shop.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Hudson watched the scruffy looking dog beside her. His head was hung low, his ears pressed back against his head, and his tail was flat down, pointing to the ground. Like a resigned prisoner being lead towards the hangman's noose. Poor little soul.

"Pluck up, little duck," Martha said softly as they rounded the corner onto Baker Street, "your luck's about to change for the better." When he didn't even look up at her, she whispered loudly, "Believe it or not, my fuzzy little field medic, you've just met the one person in the world capable of changing your misfortune."

That got his attention; his ears perked up and quizzical eyes, like a sea in a storm, stared up at her in astonishment. She laughed warmly as she dug in her pocket for her key, and he continued to stare up at her with his head cocked slightly to one side. He was adorable, in her opinion, but she could see how his looks might have put people off, especially those wonderful eyes. With a hum of triumph, Martha slotted her key into the lock and felt him follow her into the warmth of her house.

Unwilling to keep him captive, she immediately stripped off his leash and hung it on the coat rack. "Well now, John! Home sweet home, eh? Come along and I'll give you the tour."

Keeping his nose just beside her knee, Watson followed Martha through every inch of the house, from her flat on the main floor to the secondary flat all the way upstairs. His polite interest amused her, but not as much as his obvious interest in the bedroom at the top of the stairs in the upper flat. For an injured soul such as this, Martha Hudson would give him free run of the house, and if he so desired the attic room, it would be his as soon as she could find some suitable furnishings.

"Now, dear, if you'll accompany me back downstairs, I wonder if you'd be kind enough to tell me how you ended up in this predicament?"

Nodding in answer, Watson crossed back over from the corner he'd been inspecting, his tail curved high with its kinked tip lolling to one side. Smiling, Mrs. Hudson lead her new tenant back to the warm fire already merrily burning in her hearth, and poured him a cup of tea. Laying down a towel, mindful of how the canine tongue is built to work, she placed the teacup on the floor beside John as he lay down on the floor with a soft grunt.

"There now, isn't that better? Before you start, I suppose I should tell you my little secret." Martha settled herself in her old wingback armchair with a sigh, patting her hip as she relaxed. "Old joints are starting to get to me. My name, as you've probably worked out, is Martha Hudson. In my heyday I was quite a powerful white witch, but there isn't much call for people the likes us any more." A smile spread across her face as Watson neatly lapped up a few tongues-full of tea. "I haven't encountered a curse quite like yours in recent years. Can you tell me how it happened?"

Unable to formulate speech without human vocal chords, John just huffed and grumbled for a few moments. Frustrated, he leapt up and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, his ruff fluffing out as he worked himself up. Martha patted her lips with a finger for a short moment, trying to think of a way around using magic to help understand him. She wasn't exactly sure how it might affect his curse, and she didn't want to risk making things worse if she could help it.

"Oh! If you run into the kitchen, there's a pen and paper on the counter! Perhaps you can write me an account?"

An odd look at her face, followed by an equally odd look at both his front paws, was the only answer he gave her. Of course, she thought ruefully, he wouldn't be able to write without opposable thumbs. He sat down on the floor, apparently studying the woodwork, and then jerked his head up as if inspired. Dashing into the kitchen, his claws scrabbling for purchase on the sleek parquet floor, John made a few soft noises of frustration again then returned with a paper and the pen.

Holding the pen carefully in his mouth, he somehow managed to write down an entire account of his story. The writing was surprisingly neat, considering how he'd managed it, and Martha praised him absently as she began to read. Each of her brows drew closer and closer together, until they were pressed so tightly together, it was a wonder the skin of her temples didn't rip.

Letting a long sigh escape her lips, Martha crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the fire. "Goodness me, that is one powerful hex she forced on you. The good news is that I can reverse it." Another smile escaped when Watson thumped his tail hopefully against the floor. "The bad news is I don't have the strength that I used to. It's going to take more than just sheer magical power to free you, John. I'm going to need you to perform a task for me."

Sitting up a little straighter, like a cadet reporting for duty, John gave her his most attentive stare. He raised one paw up, offering to shake as if the deal was made. There was no way he was going to pass up an opportunity to be free of his curse, regardless of what she wanted him to do. Martha shook the offered limb and then gave him a friendly pat on the head.

"Bargain struck," Mrs. Hudson intoned solemnly. "I will not tell you the task you must perform, for it must be done without your express knowledge. Selfless deeds are some of the most powerful, and those completed out of the goodness of your heart are even more so."

Watson nodded somberly, understanding perfectly. Finishing his tea, he gently lifted the china cup and carried it into the kitchen. The sound of the small stool she kept to reach the higher shelves sliding across the floor was unexpected, and she made her way into the room with her curiosity piqued. Apparently, John was a fastidiously neat sort of being, as he had managed to push the stool against the counter to allow him to place his cup into the sink.

"Now, now my friend, there's no need for you to earn your keep!" She chuckled warmly. Darting back into the living room, he repeated the movement with her empty cup, wagging his tail a bit. "Alright, if you insist on being helpful then I suppose I can oblige. Lord knows with my hip I can use all the help I can get!"

While he pushed the stool out of the way of her feet, his head suddenly lifted and looked towards the door into the foyer. A loud knock on the front door of the house confirmed that John had heard someone outside. Padding quietly beside her, Watson accompanied Martha to the door, his neck ruff bristling as he prepared to defend her if necessary.

Standing outside in the darkening street was a tall man, in a pristine business suit, leaning on an umbrella. "Mrs. Hudson, I presume?"

"Yes that's me, sir. How can I help you?" "If I may?" Indicating he'd like to enter, he nearly poked Watson in the head with the tip of his umbrella.

Put out by such an indignity, John closed his teeth around the offending instrument and wrenched it away with a powerful tug. Both Martha and the man looked taken aback at the display. Fighting the urge to snarl and shred the object in his jaws, John backed up until he could rest the umbrella against the wall. He left it leaning there before looking up expectantly.

Martha was smiling jovially, "You might as well come in it seems, sir. Shall I put the kettle on for you?"

It took the man a few seconds to reply, as he kept staring at the dog, who in turn kept staring at him. "No, Mrs. Hudson that will not be necessary. I merely wished to assess the availability of lodgings. I understand you have a vacant flat upstairs."

Leading the man into the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson offered him the wingback beside the fire before sitting herself on the soft. "Yes, sir, you understand correctly. I have a two bedroom flat available for rent as soon as you're ready. You know how London is these days. It's getting hard for a little old woman like me to find a willing lodger."

He hummed in a commiserating way, "Yes that is true. However, it is not for my own usage that I am inquiring after your vacancy. You see, my younger brother has found himself quite without a comfortable living situation. His last landlord was quite, shall I say, unimpressed with him."

"Might I ask your younger brother's name?"

"Sherlock Holmes, madam."

A coo of excitement burbled out of Mrs. Hudson's smiling mouth, "Oh! Dear Sherlock! Of course he can come and live here! I'd be more than delighted to have him about."

Even though the man's features seemed as immobile as marble, one of his eyebrows leapt to his receding hairline. "You are acquainted with him?"

"Sherlock's the one who insured my husband got what he deserved. I would do anything to pay him back. I'll even cut him a special deal on the rent." She turned to her right, leaning over to look into Watson's bright little eyes. "What a lucky break, old John, eh?"

Clearing his throat, the man rose to his feet once more and bowed crisply at the waist. "You have my gratitude, Mrs. Hudson. If it pleases you, Sherlock shall arrive at quarter-past eleven tomorrow morning with his effects. Please don't bother getting up, I shall show myself out."

With a kiss of her wrinkled hand he was gone, collecting his umbrella at the door and checking the end for teeth marks as he left. Martha chuckled happily, clapping her hands in mirth. John padded softly over to sit in front of her after he made sure the other man was gone. Placing his head in her lap, John let out a long-suffering sigh, and wondered what, exactly, he'd gotten himself into.

"Don't worry, John, dear. I have a good feeling that you and Sherlock are going to get along quite swimmingly."


	3. Disturbing the Peace

As promised, the belongings of one Sherlock Holmes arrived at quarter-past eleven the following morning, sans their owner. There was, however, a note, written in dangerously sprawling handwriting, which explained that Mr. Holmes was pre-occupied at the moment with very important business of the scientific variety. The man himself would not be able to arrive until later on in the month. It went on to politely inquire whether or not Mrs. Hudson would be very kind and direct the moving men in the placement of his things. A hand-drawn blueprint of the upstairs flat, haphazardly labeled, made up the last half of the paper.

"Well, how do you like that, old John?" Mrs. Hudson tutted, showing the letter to the little dog at her side, "I suppose I can oblige him, since he was kind enough to doodle us a diagram."

It took a few hours to get everything set in place, and Mrs. Hudson tipped the movers generously for their time. Each man paused to give the dog that leaned against the door a friendly pat on the head as they left, which he seemed to tolerate well enough. As the last man slipped out the door, the dog stood up and nudged the door shut with his nose.

"Well, John!" Martha gave the little dog a cursory scratch behind the ears, "I've got to run down to the shops for a bit. When I get back I have to get ready to go to dinner with Mrs. Turner." She pulled down the olive leash and attached it to his collar. "Let's get you dropped off at the groomers and I'll pick you up after I'm done with the shopping."

A baleful look appeared on John's face at the word 'groomer'. He let out a loud huff of sound as they quit the house, shaking his fur until it fluffed up all around. Mrs. Hudson chuckled at the condescending air he put on, as if he were only agreeing to such an indignity as a particular favor.

"If you can think of a better way for you to get cleaned up, then please don't hesitate to tell me. In the meantime, you'll just have to suffer. Don't worry, though, I'll make sure they know not to put any of those silly ribbons or what-not on you."

John let out another exasperated sigh and tucked his ears back against his head, trying to control his temper. It was a lot shorter now that he was an animal, and he didn't want to risk throwing a tantrum. People didn't take kindly to dogs that snapped and snarled freely at anything and everything. Keeping a cool head wasn't hard, really, but certain things just rubbed him the wrong way.

The groomer, a Mr. Jean Jameson, being so flamboyant it was a wonder a rainbow didn't shoot out of his bum, did not help matters. His fake French accent was so horrendous it actually hurt John's teeth. Martha answered John's look of sad horror with an apologetic pat to the back. All John wanted to do was lay in front of the gas fire at the flat and sleep, but here he was getting manhandled and fondled by Jean the Groom Fairy. Life was not fair.

Not that Jean was a mean man or anything, just annoying. He chatted incessantly while he worked, until John wanted nothing better than to scratch his own ears off. Even when the dryer was on the man never shut up, not that John was even still listening at that point. To add insult to injury, Jean ignored Mrs. Hudson's instruction not to tie a ribbon into his fur. The last straw was when the man related, in an almost conspiratorial whisper, that he was going to suggest Mrs. Hudson get him neutered.

Scrabbling for purchase on the metal table he'd been flopped on, John leapt to the floor and growled, backing up until he was in the lobby again. Lucky for him, Mrs. Hudson had just arrived to collect him. She tugged the ribbon out of his fur, not even bothering to admonish the groomer for disobeying her instruction, and reattached the leash. By the time she finished paying, John was much calmer and more in control of himself again.

"Had quite a time, did you, John?" Martha asked as they made their way back to the flat. A few soft growls were her only answer. "Well, when we get home I have a surprise for you that should make it all better."

Make no mistake about it, John was surprised when they returned and she led him up to the attic bedroom. A large, comfortable dog bed rested in the far corner, with a pair of blankets folded neatly on top of it. Small, low bookshelves full of medical texts and journals lined one wall, and a squat desk had been placed beneath the round window to the outside. If he was careful, he could use the window as an escape hatch to the roof. It would be nice to see the stars again.

"What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

Wagging his tail a mile a minute, John pranced over with his tongue lolling out his mouth and a shimmer of laughter in his eyes. Martha leaned down to give him a warm hug around the neck, laughing happily. Without thinking, John gave the side of her face a few long licks.

Mrs. Hudson pushed him gently away, shaking her finger at his nose with a smile on her face, "Now John, I will tolerate many things, but the last thing I need is dog kisses. At least your breath isn't horrendous. Come along and I'll whip up something for your supper before I go out to meet Amelia."

Chastised, John followed her back down the stairs. It would be nice to have his own space again. He could even brush up on his medical knowledge, if he could figure out some way to turn the pages. For the first time since he'd been cursed, John was thankful that he'd retained his human intelligence.

The days took on a pattern after that. Every morning John would clamber his way downstairs and into the bathroom. Even he was proud of his own ingenuity in figuring out how to use the toilet. Thank heavens he was small, or he wasn't sure how he'd ever have managed it. Once finished, he would trot his way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat and start the process of making tea.

It took him four whole days to figure out how to plug in the kettle, how to carefully lift the top off the sugar bowl, and how to add the sugar into a cup. It only took him two more to figure out how to open a teabag and sling it into a cup. He was thankful that he wasn't the sort of dog that shed, or things would have been infinitely more complicated.

Once the tea was made, Mrs. Hudson would wander out from her bedroom and begin making breakfast. John would make his way to the front door, and meander down to the corner newsstand. Martha had a long-standing arrangement with the stand owner, Randolph, and since the first time she'd brought John along with her, the heavy-set older man was sure to have a paper ready. With the journalistic prize clamped in his jaws, John rushed back to the flat.

Mornings were spent reading the paper and slurping down a delicious breakfast, and were followed by Mrs. Hudson heading out for the day. Those lonely hours when John had complete run of the house were something to revel in. It wasn't that Martha was unfriendly or anything, but John had always liked his solitude. He spent that time perfecting his ability to do things with his limited body.

Things like reading. After tea, reading was one of John's favorite pastimes of his old life. It took him a full week to discover that if he was very careful he could turn the pages with an old, metal-edged ruler. Elated by the discovery, he spent every hour not in the presence of Mrs. Hudson pouring over every medical journal and text that he could find.

Martha returned in time for supper, sometimes bringing with her new books for John to add to his collection. After eating they would laze about the living room, reading or watching telly together, until it was time for them to go to bed. It was quite sedate a life for someone who had been used to their days being interrupted by firefights and the occasional psychotic break. John found it rather peaceful actually, and managed to acclimate rather well to the routine. He was content.

Or at least he thought he was content, until Sherlock Holmes arrived. In a whirl of dark, billowing cloth and cigarette smoke, the man himself arrived. It didn't really help that it was the middle of the night when he stormed in and pounded up the stairs, startling John out of a restful sleep. As quietly as possible, John made his way down to the landing and peered at the newcomer.

If there was one thing good about being a dog, it was the heightened senses. John could tell the man was Sherlock Holmes, even without having seen him before, because he smelled the same as his belongings. Thankfully John recognized that, otherwise he might have attacked the bastard out of hand. Not that he wasn't still thinking about it.

Mr. Holmes was a frighteningly tall man with skin so pale it was nearly luminous and a head full of dark curls. Willowy and graceful, the man flitted about the flat as if testing its limitations. While John watched quietly from the landing, Mr. Holmes began bustling about, setting up beakers and tossing papers out of boxes until the flat looked like chaos incarnate.

With a shake of his furry head, John retired back up to his own room, trying to ignore the sounds from below. According to the small clock Mrs. Hudson had scrounged up for him, it was nearly four in the morning. How was the man downstairs making such a ruckus? Pulling his blanket up over his head, and placing his paws over his nose, John tried to get back to sleep.

It was a nearly impossible feat. Downstairs, Mr. Holmes was making such a racket that John's sensitive ears were practically vibrating. How was Mrs. Hudson coping? Her sleeping pills were prescription strength, but even they had their limits. Speaking of limits, John reached his an hour later, when a particular someone started murdering a violin.

Leaping out of bed, all of his fur bristling up until he resembled a very small lion, John stomped his way downstairs to the second floor. His eyes found Sherlock standing in the window, dragging a bow back and forth across the strings of a violin he held perpendicular to the ground. Why in hell someone would own such a lovely instrument and not bother to know how to play it properly, John couldn't guess. All he really wanted to do was rush in, snatch the bow out of the man's hands, and hide it somewhere it would never be found.

Mindful of the wooden floors, John approached the new tenant at a controlled pace. Mr. Holmes took no notice of him, even when John managed to cough loudly. This close to the cacophony, John had no patience to continue being polite, so he let out a spectacularly loud snarl of disapproval. Startled, the man jumped to the side, dropping his bow on the floor.

Sherlock's ice blue gaze fell upon the little indignant ball of fluff and stared at it impassively. With a single tug on the curtain pull, the silvery light of dawn partially flooded the room. Seeing that it was just a dog, a small one at that (its odd head would barely even reach his knee), put Sherlock at ease again. He reached down to pick up his bow again, deleting the little beast from his train of thought.

Before he even realized the animal had moved his bow was trapped beneath one surprisingly heavy paw. In a deep baritone Sherlock rumbled, "If you know what's good for you, you insignificant little fuzz ball, you'll give me back that bow without any further trouble."

Reaching out again, Sherlock had to pull his hand back swiftly as the creature snapped viciously at it. Matching the dog's growl with one of his own, Sherlock tried twice more to retrieve his fallen bow, only to be met each time with the click of teeth and a short snarl. Something from his school days popped into his head, and he turned his eyes to stare into those of the dog.

If he was expecting John to quit the stare-down, then Mr. Holmes had another thing coming. Glaring right back into those pale blue orbs, John's navy and steel gaze was as heavy as any predator's. Not even the sound of Mrs. Hudson beginning the morning routine downstairs could move him. Even when she called up the stairs the only thing of him that moved was his ears.

"John? I'm starting breakfast!" Martha's voice carried up from her flat, and Sherlock couldn't help but glance at the stairwell.

Taking the opportunity, John snatched up the bow in his teeth and disappeared back up the stairs. He kicked the door shut with his back legs, hearing it lock as the old bolt dropped. It rattled when Sherlock bodily slammed into the door. Smiling in his mind, John bolted out his window to the roof, depositing the bow in a safe niche. Perhaps now Mr. Holmes would think twice before making a nuisance of himself.

Inside the house, John could hear Mr. Holmes shouting for Mrs. Hudson, and a small worm of worry dug its way into his brain. Using the fire escape stairs, John made his way to the back door of the house and let himself back inside. Martha was no where to be seen in the kitchen, but he could hear the deep tones of Mr. Holmes shouting from the floor above. Bristling up again, John bounded up the staircase to Martha's aid.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock, what bow?"

"My bow, Mrs. Hudson, and my skull, by the way, don't think I haven't noticed that was missing also!"

"Now why would I touch your things, dear?" Mrs. Hudson was puttering about, straightening things here and there, while Mr. Holmes waved his arms about like a spoilt child who had lost his favorite toy.

"I didn't say you did it, Mrs. Hudson! I'm talking about that filthy excuse for a Canis lupus familiaris you've got hiding upstairs!"

"You mean little old John? You think John took your bow and your skull?"

"Who names a bloody dog 'John'?"

Mrs. Hudson was first to notice John sitting calmly in the doorway of the living room. She walked over to him and leaned her hands on her knees. "What's this Sherlock's been telling me, old John? Did you take his bow?"

Behind her, Mr. Holmes murmured, "You can't be serious."

John cocked his head to the side and Martha smiled. "Rather rude of you, John. You're usually so polite. Be a dear and bring Sherlock back his bow from wherever you hid it, please?"

For a few moments, John stubbornly refused to budge. Finally, after a small argument with himself, he relented and slipped back down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He would have to undo the lock upstairs later anyway, so he might as well kill two squirrels with one arrow. He trudged his way back up the fire escape, gently took up the bow again, and wiggled back through his bedroom window.

It took a bit of serious manipulation to get the attic door unlocked and open again, but John managed to figure it out without getting flustered. He trotted his way back down to Sherlock's flat, and approached the tall man. Sitting down, John curled his tail around his legs and waited.

Cautiously, Sherlock reached out and took hold of his precious bow. Once he had a good grip on it, the dog released its hold, and Sherlock whipped the second half of his prized possession to inspect it for teeth marks. To his surprise, there were none.

"What about my skull?"

"Now that, dear, you aren't getting back. Come along, John, breakfast is getting cold." Mrs. Hudson turned her back on Sherlock and started meandering back down to her kitchen.

Sherlock stared down at the little dog, confusion in his eyes but not in his expression. He was used to people treating their pets like people, but the way Mrs. Hudson spoke to her funny colored beastie was making him question the sanity of his landlady. Deciding to delete his discomfort from his mind, Sherlock moved to resettle himself in the window and get back to thinking.

With a little huff, John called the man's attention back to him. He wasn't entirely sure why he was bothering to be nice, considering Mr. Holmes obviously had no use for canines, but when it came down to brass tacks, John was a friendly sort. Walking to the sofa, John bent his front end to the floor and stretched his neck beneath it. He'd seen Mrs. Hudson hide the skull down there weeks ago, claiming that she didn't like the way it leered at her.

Surprise was evident on Mr. Holmes's face when John tugged the skull out. It was replaced by suspicion a few seconds later as he swiped it up from the floor and planted it squarely on the corner of the mantle. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the animal lower and shake its head, then get up and make its way back downstairs.

Dogs were not really his area of expertise, but he did know intelligence, and Sherlock had never seen a dog behave like Mrs. Hudson's. Momentarily intrigued, he tiptoed his way down to his landlady's living room and stared at the scene before him. If he was a different sort of man, the sight would probably have dislocated his jaw, as it would have hit the floor.

Mrs. Hudson's dog was lapping tea out of a mug, and it had a full plate of eggs, blood sausage, and beans on toast beside it. With her own mug and plate, Mrs. Hudson was reading the newspaper out loud to her pet, as if she was discussing the latest political issues with it. Neat as you please, the dog licked up slices of sausage and bits of egg, and glanced up at his mistress as she spoke.

Letting out little puffs of sound, and the occasional growl, it almost seemed like the dog was answering her. Then, when they were finished eating, it collected the mugs and slipped into the kitchen. Returning empty-jawed, it continued cleaning by picking up the plates one by one and carrying them into the kitchen also. Mr. Holmes had heard of dogs being trained to perform certain tasks, but he'd never actually seen one take initiative. Mrs. Hudson had neither spoken a command or made any sort of hand signal that he had seen. Nor did she command the beast to bring her a throw blanket before it curled up in front of the fire.

Suddenly, the dog lifted its head and stared right through Sherlock, its floppy ears perked forwards. "Is someone at the door, John?"

A knock at the front door of the house startled Sherlock nearly as much as being growled at had. Without further thought, he pulled open the portal and glared at the man standing on the front step. Allowing himself a cursory glance over the man's person, just to see if anything had changed since they had last spoken in person, Sherlock grabbed the man's arm and dragged him inside.

"Lestrade, how nice of you to stop by."

"Yeah, spare me please, Holmes. There's been a fourth." Detective Inspector Lestrade straightened out his jacket, casting a quick glance over the old woman who stood behind Britain's only Consulting Detective.

"Another one, eh?" Sherlock looked positively giddy. "Wonderful. I'll follow along presently. Text me the address."

"Yeah, thanks."

Once the door was shut on Lestrade's heels, Sherlock turned to his landlady and smiled handsomely, "Christmas has come early, Mrs. Hudson! Four serial murders in seven days, all without a speck of physical evidence besides the bodies. Finally, the game is on!"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him fondly and patted his back, "Look at you beaming away. Indecent, that's what it is. Run along then, off you go to make the city a safer place."

After rushing up the stairs for his scarf and coat, Sherlock nearly flew back out the door, shouting over his shoulder that he would require something cold for dinner. Martha simply sighed loudly that she was a landlady, not a housekeeper, and retired back to her sofa. She knew he hadn't heard a word she'd said, but that didn't stop her from saying it for her own benefit.

"Dogs are considered," Mrs. Hudson squeaked in surprise as Sherlock reappeared in the doorway, "to have senses of smell and hearing quite beyond those of a human." Mr. Holmes made his way over to the end of the sofa, looking down at the animal in question where he was laying beside the fire. "The hound breeds especially, I understand, have some of the most sensitive noses and ears. And the shepherd breeds are known for their intelligence. Your dog shows several characteristics in common with both of those categories."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at the dog before her fire. "How would you like to help Sherlock catch his quarry, old John?"

Very slowly John rose onto his haunches and cocked his head to the side, staring into the fire in thought. A ghost of his former self, somewhere buried deep in his thoughts, sang of battle and usefulness and lit the old fire of adrenaline in his veins. How he missed that song, that searing jolt of excitement. Staring up into Sherlock Holmes's pale blue orbs, John felt a sense of rightness settle in his gut.

Trotting to the foyer, John whipped his leash from its hook on the coat rack and presented it to the detective. A funny little lift of the corners of Sherlock's lips was the only sign of approval he received as the man fastened it to his collar. Without further delay, Sherlock looped the other end of the leash around his slim wrist and both of them bounded out the door.

Alone in her house once more, Martha Hudson smiled widely into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, if you haven't already guessed, John's dog form is loosely based on my own dog, Reilly, who was a third of the inspiration for this story.


	4. The Bankers in Belgravia

Sergeant Sally Donovan was used to having her nose metaphorically punched out of joint whenever Sherlock Holmes arrived at a crime scene. He never followed procedure, swanned around in his bloody coat and scarf like some sort of Batman-wannabe, and insulted everyone and everything in sight. They say familiarity breeds contentment, but there was no being content with Sherlock Holmes about, no matter how familiar one might be with his personality.

When he appeared, striding down the private lane towards the crime scene, Sally reached for her radio automatically. Just before she radioed up to her boss, her gaze was caught by the glint of sunlight off golden fur and she narrowed her eyes at the tall man rapidly approaching. There, just at his knee, was the head of the most indignant looking dog she had ever seen.

So in shock was she, that Sally dropped her radio to the ground, her jaw hanging open as she stared. Sherlock let himself beneath the crime scene tape, and his usual insolent smirk rapidly appeared at the sergeant's obvious befuddlement. John looked up at her, then down at the radio, and then up at her again with his head cocked to one side.

"You know, Sally, with your mouth open like that, I feel I can finally pinpoint what Anderson sees in you." Mr. Holmes chuckled wickedly as Sally made a strangled noise, her face turning nearly purple with rage. "Come along, John, nothing to see here."

He tugged on John's leash, but the little dog didn't budge. When he looked down at his furry companion, it was looking up at him in a scandalized way, as if it couldn't believe what he had just said. Sherlock walked a few steps towards the house and John seemed to wake himself out of his mortification with a shake of his head. Once again the dog matched his pace as they stepped towards the door of the house.

It was a newly built miniature mansion, and the vulgar display of wealth within actually made John want to vomit. Sherlock did not seem put off by it, or at least not that John could tell. Halfway up the staircase, a pursed-faced man in a blue, plastic jumpsuit blocked their way.

"This is a bloody crime scene, not a dog park. You're going to contaminate everything!"

"Oh, please, Anderson, contaminate what? There's never any physical evidence in the first place besides the body. What, do you think it's going to mark the scene as its territory?"

Shoving the other man to the side, Sherlock continued ascending the stairs, John remaining quietly at pace with him. At the top landing, Lestrade was waiting dressed in his own jumpsuit. The DI was glaring at the radio in his hand as if he thought it was defective in some way. After a long moment, Lestrade looked up, and his heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrows came together so fast, John was surprised he didn't hear them crash.

"Who, in the name of God, let you, of all people, get a dog, let alone tell you that you could bring it to a crime scene?"

"Never mind that, Inspector, show me in."

"You aren't using the poor thing for experiments are you?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock's voice held a tone of dark warning, "show me in to the scene. Now."

Throwing his hands in the air, the Detective Inspector acquiesced and turned to open the door of the master bedroom. "Same as the last three, Holmes. This one's Mr. Edward Van Coon, banker, recently arrived home from a trip to China."

Splayed out on the floor like some macabre work of modern art was the body of a middle-aged man in a fairly expensive looking business suit. Laying face-down on the Persian rug, his face pointed away from the window, the man looked as if he'd simply fallen asleep. There was no blood, no broken glass, and no sign at all of a struggle. Nothing.

"Marvelous." With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock detached the leash from John's collar, wrapped it around his neck like his scarf, and bent to the task of deducing all he could.

John settled down on his haunches beside Lestrade, peering interestedly at Mr. Holmes as the man muttered and grumbled. A small magnifying glass seemed to be all Sherlock needed to study the corpse and surrounding area, and John wondered to himself how thorough such an examination could be. How much could the man glean from sight alone?

Sherlock stood with a flourish, slipping his magnifying glass back into his pocket, and turned to Lestrade. "Mr. Van Coon has been dead at least an hour, he shows no signs of having struggled with his attacker, and there is no sign of forced entry or exit anywhere in the house. He's been abroad at least twice in the past month, but his last stop wasn't China, Lestrade, it was Afghanistan."

Lestrade sighed heavily, "Alright, how do you know that?"

"The ticket in his jacket pocket. Beijing to Heathrow with a four hour lay-over in Kandahar. Very little for a banker handling Chinese accounts to do in such a place."

Opening the window, Sherlock leaned out to find out how far it was to the ground, and how one might have managed to get there without breaking a leg. The wind that swept in tickled in John's nose; a faint scent of coconut just barely noticeable in the breeze. Nose twitching, John stepped tentatively forward and lowered his face to the ground, trying to find the origin of the smell.

"Oy, Sherlock."

Mr. Holmes turned around to tell Lestrade to kindly sod off, but the words died in his mouth as he watched Mrs. Hudson's dog sniffing at the corpse. Its nose trailed over to the man's face, then nudged against it. After watching it struggle to push the head away from whatever it was locked on to, Sherlock moved to slide the body out of its way.

Beneath the man's head was a grating, and John sniffed deeply at it. The scent was faint, but it was definitely there, and it was definitely on the man's mouth too, but how had it gotten there? John stepped over to peer down at the man's hands, checking for signs of cyanosis. He would have given anything for a way to check the man's eyes as well. Putting his nose back to work, John found two more places where the coconut smell was strong. No, not coconut, it was cocoa butter.

"What's he got?"

"Damned if I know." Sherlock leaned down to mimic the dog, sniffing at a sleeve that John had been paying particular attention to. He could smell a faint scent of what was probably sun screen. The man had been in the desert for 4 hours, after all.

When he reached the dead man's right ankle, John paused as the faintest hint of copper filled his nose. He pawed at the trousers obstructing his view, trying to find out where the smell of blood was coming from. To his surprise, Sherlock crouched down beside him and shoved the pant leg out of the way. Whipping out his magnifying glass, the detective stared at a teeny tiny blood stain on the gray sock before him.

"Lestrade! This man has been injected with something!" Absently patting John on the head, Sherlock stood up again, smiling like a loon. "Clever! Taking into account the absence of signs of a struggle, Mr. Van Coon must have known his killer. This person injected poor, unsuspecting Mr. Van Coon in the ankle, possibly with some kind of poison, then absconded out the window." Holmes brought his hands to his lips as if praying. "If it was poison, then it would show up on a tox screen. It must have been some kind of tranquilizer then. The usual cause of death for the last three bankers was asphyxiation due to smothering but we don't know with what. Perhaps it's something the killer takes with them.

I need to take a look at his suitcase, Lestrade. Bring it up here as soon as possible. If I'm right, and I usually am, his phone will be missing just like with the others. And we might even be able to tell if the killer used something of his belongings to smother him."

"There isn't a case, Holmes."

"Bollocks, Lestrade, the man just returned from a trip abroad, of course he has a case."

"There's no case, Holmes. We've searched the whole house."

Sherlock was completely silent for a whole six minutes before he flashed out the door, shouting at the loitering officers to help him find the man's travel case. John rolled his eyes to himself and trotted over to the window. The odor of cocoa butter was there on the sill, but not on the floor. He wondered what it meant before exiting the room in search of Mr. Holmes.

When he got downstairs, he found Lestrade listening stoically as Anderson and Donovan talked at him. Ignoring them, John put his nose to the ground, seeking out the scent of Mr. Holmes. He stopped at the door, huffing sadly, as he realized the man had apparently fled the scene. Growling to himself, John bristled up his fur in frustration.

"Oh, the poor thing!" Donovan walked over and squatted down beside the little dog, reaching out to stroke its soft fur. "The Freak left him behind, Sir! Should we take it home?"

Lestrade walked over, scratching the back of his head in thought. An idea hit the Inspector so suddenly, it was a wonder a light bulb didn't appear over his head and smash down on top of it. "Let's finish processing the scene here. Then Anderson, Donovan, you both grab a couple of extra officers. We're going to escort this animal home, and once there we're going to conduct a little impromptu drugs bust."

The wicked light that appeared in both Anderson's and Donovan's was a little frightening. Anderson smiled in a way that twisted the Inspector's stomach. "Are you serious, Sir?"

"I think we all know Holmes is going to find that damned suitcase. Might as well be there when he gets back with it."

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

It was nearly one in the morning when Sherlock returned, exhausted and triumphant, to his flat. Clasped in his hand was Mr. Van Coon's beautiful, custom-made Prada suitcase. He'd already gone through it twice, and found no sign of laptop or phone, which made him both happy and unhappy. Being right was always enjoyable.

It had been exactly the same for all four murdered bankers: missing suitcase easily found in a skip five kilometers away, no phones or laptops to be found, no other physical evidence in their own houses to show who had been the killer. Things were definitely starting to get more and more fun. Hefting the case in his arms, he took another look at the markings painted onto the leather. Every suitcase he had found had similar paint marks, but he had no idea what they meant.

The clasp of the leash hanging around his neck pinged against one of the buckles on the suitcase, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. Mrs. Hudson would probably be angry with him for leaving her pet at the crime scene, but he had faith that Lestrade would have enough sense of mind to bring the dog home. After all, the DI wasn't as stupid as Anderson.

Hanging the leash and his coat and scarf on the coat rack beside the door, a sound from upstairs alerted Sherlock that all was not as peaceful as it seemed. Wondering what it could be, he ran through a large number of possible scenarios in his head as his brows drew closer and closer together. Mrs. Hudson bustled out of her living room a moment later, looking rather worried.

"What have you done, Sherlock?"

"Of what are you speaking, Mrs. Hudson."

"The police are upstairs going through your flat!"

Without speaking further, Sherlock bolted up the stairs, the suitcase still clutched in his hands. Stopping in the doorway of his flat, he observed several police officers shuffling through his bookshelves and lifting up the cushions of his couch. Lestrade was perched in one of the armchairs placed beside the fireplace, flipping through a file that rested in his lap. In the chair opposite the Detective Inspector, the dog, John, was sitting, with his little head swiveling about as he watched the action around him with interest.

"What the bloody hell do you mean by this, Lestrade?"

"Ah, Sherlock, welcome home."

"I asked you a question, Inspector. What are you doing in my flat?"

"Drugs bust," Lestrade said, smiling flippantly.

Sherlock looked mildly taken aback, which Lestrade took to mean he had hit a nerve. The consulting detective carefully placed the leather case on the floor, then crossed his arms over his chest and loomed over the DI with a stormy look on his face. "How many times can I remind you, Detective Inspector, that I am clean?"

Quietly, Lestrade whispered, "Bet your flat isn't."

Growling, Sherlock began to sharply pace back and forth, "What is the meaning of this ridiculous ruse, Lestrade? How dare you threaten me like this! I'm not your pet hound, here to sniff about for your amusement!"

"You're right, Holmes. Anderson's my hound." Lestrade closed the file in his lap and pointed to the kitchen.

Whirling around, Sherlock stared as Anderson waved, sloshing the purplish liquid around inside the beaker in his hand. Donovan leaned around the corner of the door, a small glass dish in her hand, "Are these fish eggs that I found in the toaster oven?"

"They are rat eyes, and it's an experiment. I'll thank you to return them immediately."

Donovan turned a little gray in the face, holding the bowl out even farther from her person as she disappeared behind the door frame. Anderson unstoppered a flask sitting over an unlit Bunsen burner and sniffed at the contents. He started coughing uncontrollably and immediately re-plugged the opening. Sherlock let out an agitated snarl and turned his wrath back on Lestrade.

"What are they even doing here; they aren't on the drug squad!"

"Keen though, aren't they? Look, Sherlock, these cases are mine, not yours. You are a consultant, not a member of the police force. So, work with me here, ok?" Lestrade held up his hands in supplication. "God knows I need your help, and you'd go stark raving bonkers without doing something to prove how clever you are, so let's just share information and see what we come up with, eh?"

Dragging his hands down his face, Sherlock collapsed dramatically onto the sofa, throwing an arm over his eyes. Lestrade waited patiently, chewing on his bottom lip as he hoped against hope that for once, just once, the younger man would consider bending his usual methods enough to compromise. After a long moment, in which only Sherlock's finger tips twitched, the consulting detective let out a long groan and placed his hands, palms together, against his chin.

While Sherlock remained stoically silent, John slipped off his seat and trotted around the suitcase that had been abandoned on the floor. Glaring at the blue writing, John sniffed at the paint, then at the handle of the bag. There was that cocoa butter smell again, and it was in other places on the case as well. Stalking around the whole case, sniffing here and there, it clicked in his mind that if someone were wearing cocoa butter lotion on their hands, it would probably be transferred to the cases and the victims whenever the killer touched them. If he still had the right lips for it, John would have smiled.

Giving in, Mr. Holmes finally grumbled, "What are you going to give me that I haven't already deduced?"

"How about a copy of all the paperwork involved in each of the other 3 murders, with the promise of another file when we're finished with Mr. Van Coon?" Lestrade walked across the floor and carefully placed the folder he was holding onto Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock hummed in acceptance, stroking a hand across the folder. "All four cases had different blue paint markings, and none of them had a laptop or a phone inside them, which means, our killer took them. Each case was found in a skip approximately five kilometers from the murder scenes, which means out killer has some mode of transportation other than their own two feet. The paint was completely dry when the victims picked them up from the baggage claim, which means it was painted on inside the airport before the bags were released. It's quick-dry spray paint, easily obtainable through a variety of hobby shops. I have no idea what the symbols are, by the way, so don't even bother asking."

"Where are the other 3 cases?" Anderson asked forcefully as he walked into the room, pulling off his latex gloves with a loud snap.

The forensic analyst was given a reproachful look as Sherlock rolled onto his side, tossing the folder on the coffee table. "If I can have your full attention, please, instead of interruptions? The other three cases are neatly stacked beneath my desk over there, against the window. Are you really so useless I have to point out something utterly obvious to anyone with half a brain? Is it nice, being simple? It must be so much more relaxing than being a genius."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade interrupted this time, afraid that if he let the man's mouth run loose they would all regret it. "Could you pull back on track for us?"

A gusty sigh left the detective's mouth, "Very well. The symbols on each case are different, but the paint is exactly the same. The cases too are very similar, all expensive, designer label leather travel cases. All were rifled through, probably before the killer disposed of them instead of inside the houses in which the victims were killed. I'd assume, quite rightly of course, that this was because the killer was familiar with the schedules of the housekeepers in all four mansions, yet another sign that the killer knew the victims."

Padding over to the desk in question, John tugged the suitcases out by the handles, running his nose all over each one in turn. Cocoa butter smell was smeared on every one, in varying degrees of strength, which wasn't that odd considering how long they had been sitting around. Glancing over his shoulder at the people staring at Mr. Holmes blathering away on the couch, something about the shape of the blue paint on one of the cases caught John's eye. Walking around it so he could look at the symbol from every angle, a shape jumped out of John's memory from his time in Afghanistan.

"The killer was clever, and obviously versed in the use and administration of pharmaceuticals, and was possibly female. All four men are known purchasers of high-class nightly companionship. It stands to reason their evening mistresses would know the comings and goings of the housekeepers. Hard to keep an affair discrete otherwise."

"Know that for a fact do you?" Donovan smirked.

"Don't interrupt him." Lestrade admonished.

"Doesn't particularly matter, I was finished anyway." Sherlock popped up off the couch so quickly, Anderson nearly fell over trying to avoid their heads colliding. "You can take the cases if you want, I have pictures of all the markings and they can't tell me anything more anyway."

The man paused, staring intently, and all three members of Scotland Yard followed his gaze. With both front paws placed on the case still beneath the desk, the other two cases laying on the floor around him, the little dog was cocking its head at the painted markings. Laughing to themselves, the other police officers were watching the canine's antics with smiles on their faces.

"John," Sherlock called, "leave those alone. Those are not playthings, nor are they edible."

Letting out a little huff, John pushed off the case and walked over to sit in front of the window beside the sofa, peering out at the city street but not really seeing it. Behind him, Lestrade chuckled softly and began calling back his officers, much like a shepherd rounding up errant sheep. Ignoring the goings on around him, John turned his thoughts inward. How was he going to tell someone about the markings? He could write it down for Mrs. Hudson, but no one from Scotland Yard would believe a dog could write, they would probably just tell her off.

"Well trained, he is," Lestrade indicated the dog staring out the window like a silent sentinel. "Never thought of you as a pet person."

"I have many layers, Inspector," the consulting detective said mysteriously, "but even with enough time your mean intellect would never unravel them all."

Lestrade seemed to ignore the insult and exited the flat right after the last of his fake drug bust squad. Alone again, Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly, which wasn't nearly sufficient enough to calm his racing mind. He began scrambling about the flat, checking to make sure that everything was exactly as it had been, and fixing them when he found things out of place. Lord, he hated it when people touched his belongings. It was also a good way to make sure his secret stashes had remained secret.

Turning around to exit his bedroom, Sherlock came knee to face with Mrs. Hudson's little dog. Those bright blue eyes were giving him a measuring look, and he had to edge around the animal to leave the room. Something about the little beast made him feel just a tiny bit nervous, as if it could see right through him.

Upon returning to the living room, the detective began the process of tacking up all the information from the police files, and his own photos and notes about the cases, on the wall above and beside the hearth. There was quite a bit of knowledge to be had, so he also scrounged up a box of multicolored thumbtacks from somewhere beneath the coffee table. Using one color for each victim, Sherlock lined up tacks beside the common factors he could see. He briefly thought of calling down for Mrs. Hudson to ask for some post-it notes.

A sound behind him made him turn around. Sitting beside the coffee table, a pouch made out of a khaki bandana in its jaws, was the dog. It was glaring at him fiercely as it spat the bandana onto the coffee table. As the cloth unfolded, Sherlock jerked back in surprise, staring at the glitter of light on glass. Inside the makeshift bag was every vial and bag of drug he'd had hidden around the flat.

"Why you little," Sherlock began, rolling up a sleeve as he approached the small beast before him.

A ferocious growl cut off the rest of his tirade as the dog jumped to its feet and all its fur puffed up, its tail sticking straight out behind it. Placing itself firmly between the detective and his stash, the dog snapped at the air, muzzle contorting violently as it snarled. It snatched up the offensive bundle of cloth and disappeared down the hallway, dashing into the bathroom. Sherlock gave chase, but he was too late, the dog had already dropped the contents from the cloth into the toilet. While he watched, astonished, the dog rose up on its hind legs and struck the handle with a forepaw.

Snorting in satisfaction as the drugs disappeared, vials and all, into the plumbing, John turned to regard the detective with a decidedly accusing look. Mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish, Sherlock could barely find it in himself to be horrified. The drugs didn't really matter, he could get more of them whenever he desired, but the mere audacity of the little animal, and such a surprising display of intelligence, was overwhelming his mind.

Trying to regain his composure, Sherlock looked down at his revealed arm and wondered if perhaps he should cut back on the nicotine patches. This was entirely too weird, and he had been through some proper freak-outs during his university days while experimenting with every recreational drug known to man. Deciding to momentarily suspend the belief that animals were of decidedly inferior intelligence, Sherlock chewed on the inside of his lower lip and regarded the canine now sitting on the bathroom floor.

"I'm getting the idea that you don't approve of drug usage." Sherlock smirked as it cocked its head and lifted one ear up, as if to indicate it was listening. "Obviously you are smarter than the average beast. Thanks to your nose, I was able to deduce the use of a tranquilizer in the perpetration of these murders. Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement?"

The dog curled its tail around its feet, perking both ears forward as if interested. It made Sherlock wonder just how much the animal could understand. Using an old method that someone had once told him worked on children, the detective sat himself cross-legged on the floor, making himself and the dog more or less eye-to-eye with one another.

"As genius as I am, I need something to bounce ideas off of, and so far the biggest breakthrough I've had on this case has been because of you." Using Lestrade's own argument, Sherlock set forth his proposal, "With your heightened senses and my intellect, we could work very well together. Perhaps we should share our findings and come to a conclusion that ends in an arrest before the week is out."

Looking towards the shower, the dog seemed to be thinking, its ears tucked back against its head and its eyes roving about a bit. When it looked back at Sherlock, it stood up and slowly approached until it was an arm's length away. It dangled a paw in the air and stilled expectantly.

Reaching out, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the softly furred appendage and shook it up and down. "Pleasure to partner with you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I switched things up in regards to the show. In order for dog!John to be of use, I decided to not follow the show to the letter. Please don't hate me?


	5. A Study in Blinds (Part 1)

Laid out on the table, like a Solitaire spread, were four nearly identical photos of suitcases. Above those photos were four more pictures of dead bodies. For the fiftieth time that night, Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his eyes and face. It was already eight in the morning and he was going nowhere faster than a cheetah on a broken treadmill.

The scent of bacon cooking from downstairs was bothersome. His stomach had been complaining lately, which wasn't technically surprising, as he hadn't eaten for three days. He could manage one more day before he collapsed, so he settled for just muttering angrily at himself for getting distracted by something as trivial as food. Refocusing his attention, Sherlock turned each photo a quarter-torn to the left, and folded his hands beneath his chin again.

A soft clatter to his left called him out of his reverie. Turning to shout at Mrs. Hudson for disturbing him, the words died in his throat. Sitting beside him, a tray clutched in its teeth, was his landlady's dog, John. On said tray were two mugs of tea, a small towel, and a plate of eggs, bacon, and potatoes.

"If you're planning on eating up here, you are sadly mistaken." The detective turned his head back to his evidence.

John let out an exasperated huff, and dropped the tray right onto the pictures. Sherlock made an indignant, angry noise (which was promptly ignored) as John took the time to lay his towel on the floor. Placing his own mug, very carefully, onto the towel, John lapped up some of the sweetened liquid, completely oblivious to the evil stare fixed upon him.

Sherlock sneered at the plate, trying to scare the grease off the bacon, before giving in to the horribly loud squelching of his stomach. Inhaling the breakfast like a ravenous waif (not exactly his finest moment), the detective forced himself to ignore a bout of nausea. Almost as soon as he dropped his fork to lift his mug, John slipped the plate off the tray and carried it downstairs. Lifting one eyebrow at the sight, he took his first sip of tea in weeks.

Coughing in shock, Sherlock held the mug away from his mouth and gave it a wide-eyed stare. It was  _the_  most delicious cup of tea that had ever passed his lips. Hands down, bar none, with no additional clichés required. Never, in his life, had a tastier brew of antioxidants and tannins slid across his tongue. Mrs. Hudson had obviously not made this tea, and that was something he could not fully explain.

John returned and snagged the tray, lifting it up before taking it off the table so as not to disturb the pictures further. The detective watched as the little beast reared up to push his tray onto the kitchen counter. When it returned to the coffee table, once again wrapping its tail around its front paws as it sat, Sherlock shook his head to clear it and returned to the photos.

"The symbols have to mean something," the detective was murmuring to himself. John kept quiet, still trying to figure out a way to alert his new colleague of the meaning behind the painted marks. A little louder, Sherlock grumbled, "If they're a code, then perhaps they represent letters. An anagram? But why different ones on four separate occasions?"

Giving the images another quarter-turn, he wished fervently that he had some equipment loaded with pattern recognition technology. Sherlock lifted one celluloid copy in his hand and glared at it. Something warm connected with his knee, and he frowned to his left. Little John had placed one paw on his leg and was craning as if to see the photo for itself. Shoving the offending limb away, Sherlock flopped over on his back on the sofa.

Nudging the man's elbow sharply with his nose, John tried once more to be shown the picture. Flapping the photo in the dog's face, Sherlock snapped, "I refuse to pet you, so please desist."

As gently as he could, John closed his mouth over the picture's edge and tugged. As he was afraid to tear the image, Sherlock let go, frowning thunderously. While the detective spun back into a seated position, John dropped the photo and stepped on one marking. Making a sudden, inspired decision (if John could toot his own horn), he barked the Morse Code for the number one.

Immediately recognizing the pattern, Sherlock froze. It could just be the way the dog barked, but John had already shown a remarkable amount of intelligence previously. He gestured for the dog to continue, and watched as it moved its paw over the other marking and yapped out the number fifteen. John removed his paw from the photo, sitting back down on his haunches and looking pleased.

For several minutes, silence reigned in the flat. Sherlock's mind was racing now that he recognized the pattern could be an alphanumeric cipher. He lifted the photo off the floor and exchanged it for another, commanding, "Again."

Peering down at the picture, John cocked his head this way and that before batting at it with a paw. Sherlock deflated, believing that the first time had been a fluke. He should have known better than to put his faith in a lesser being. Groaning, he flopped back on the sofa as John scrambled up the staircase to the attic.

The sound of claws on wood was enough for him to open his eyes again. Mrs. Hudson's pet was holding a ruler in its mouth, and carefully trying to insert it beneath the photograph. When it succeeded only in turning the image over, it growled and flipped it back over again. Shaking its little head back and forth while growling in frustration, the dog tried using the ruler on just one corner, making the image spin.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked curiously.

Looking up at the detective, John tapped his ruler against the picture twice, and then spun himself around. When Sherlock only stared at him, he did it again. A light appeared in the genius's eyes when he realized that John wanted him to turn the picture around, so it could be seen at a different angle. Hastily lifting the picture up, Sherlock held it flat in his palms and turned it slowly.

With its entire attention focused on the image, Sherlock waited until John made a sharp grunting noise before stopping the image. One paw lifted and patted down on the left-hand symbol (Sherlock's right), and the dog barked out the number seven. Pausing for half a moment, John lifted his paw again and placed it on the second symbol, barking out the number twelve.

So thrilled was he, that Sherlock simply dropped the picture before stepping over the coffee table. His foot slipped on one of the photographs, nearly sending him toppling, but he managed to right himself with a hard twist of his leg. Ignoring the twinge in his knee and thigh, Sherlock whipped open his laptop so hard it was a wonder the screen didn't pop off.

Finding himself forgotten, John carefully manipulated the pictures on the floor back onto the table. As Sherlock continued to mumble excitedly to himself, John tidied up his towel and tea mug, taking them back downstairs to deposit them in the hamper and the sink respectively. Noticing Mrs. Hudson had left him a note, John had to brace his front paws on the edge of the coffee table to read it.

_Dear John - Heading to Bridge Club with the Ladies. Please keep an eye on Sherlock? I don't want to find any new holes or burns in anything. - Martha Hudson_

Growling softly to himself, John made his way back into the kitchen and snagged another mug. He carried the empty one back upstairs, and paused in the doorway. How long had he been gone, five minutes at the most? His head drooped at the mess that had sprung up.

Sherlock was practically littering the place with printouts of the numerals that had been spray painted onto the suitcases. "If it's an alpha-numeric cipher then the numbers should correspond to letters, but you would need more than two letters to get your message across. It must be something more elaborate. What if it's a book cipher? Well, then they'd all have to own the same book wouldn't they? Nevertheless, why would whoever use different numbers for different people? Different books? Oh, that's clever! Is it clever? Why's it clever?"

With a sad sigh, John trotted his way to the bathroom and used the tub faucet to fill his mug up with water. Thirst was one thing he was never going to get used to while he was trapped in his furry form. When he'd been soldiering in the desert, he could go sometimes for hours without water. Now it sometimes felt like he couldn't go for half a minute without taking a drink. Not having sweat glands was a damned inconvenience.

For the moment, John simply ignored the abnormally tall man mumbling to himself in the living room, searching for an out-of-the-way place to put his mug. Finally settling on a small corner of the kitchen, just behind the door, he turned his attention back to the man before him. Sherlock was staring blankly at the collage of numbers, photos, and post-it notes he'd built on the wall above the fireplace mantle. Suddenly, the taller man raised his hands to his head and gripped the hair above his ears, snarling in frustration.

"What does it mean? Different books, why is that clever? So no one would be able to figure out which book was the codebook? There would still have to be a way to know which book was the codebook though, or they wouldn't have been able to figure out the message themselves. So, the question remains, which book?" Scrambling suddenly for his mobile phone, Sherlock rapidly typed out a message and hit send with a vengeance.

Bored of watching the strange man's obvious descent into madness, John trotted over to the desk, where the rest of the files lay and snatched them one at a time. Batting the photos to one side, being careful not to mess them up, John laid out the files one by one in a neat line. While he carefully flipped his way to the medical reports, he listened with half an ear to Sherlock, who had begun to shout into his phone.

"Yes I said  _all_  the books! If I only wanted  _some_  of the books, I would have said so! Just pack the bloody things up and bring them over! Of course from all four victims! And bring me the report for the last one as well! I don't care how long it takes, just bring them!"

Tapping his foot on the floor, and his mobile against his lips, Sherlock glared at the mural he'd tacked up and grimaced in frustration. Why couldn't people just do what he told them? Mrs. Hudson's ridiculous dog had more sense! Shouting wordlessly, the detective swiped an arm along the mantle, dislodging everything onto the floor. His friend the skull rolled around behind him as his tantrum subsided.

Deciding to ignore the tantrum, John stared hard at the most common denominator he had found in the medical reports. Banking must have been a job with a higher stress level than John realized. Each of the victims showed elevated levels of potassium, a side effect of the medications each man took for high blood pressure. The medical examiner had listed the cause of death as a 'heart attack' for all three of the men, which John found a little irritating. Whoever this 'Dr. Hooper' was, they weren't very descriptive.

Sherlock turned around to pick the skull back up and apologize for his unsightly behavior, but stopped short when he saw the dog leaning on the coffee table. It actually seemed to be reading the medical reports, the bright blue eyes tracking across the pages as it swung its head like a metronome between the files. It looked up at him when it realized he was staring at it.

John perked his ears forward and cocked his head to the side, waiting. In the short time he had been exposed to the detective, it was obvious the man couldn't control his mouth. Any moment now, Sherlock would start blathering away, about whatever was roiling around in his mind.

But the detective didn't start speaking. He opened his mouth a few times as if to begin speaking, but then pursed his lips together and slowly approached the furry little beast. Intrigued, if only because Sherlock seemed to have been rendered speechless, John shifted his front paws closer together so he could better look up into the detective's light blue eyes.

"You really are smarter than the average canine, aren't you, John?" Sherlock sounded both pleased and perhaps frustrated.

They continued to stare at each other until a loud banging at the front door alerted them of a guest arriving. Taking off like a shot, the detective barreled down the stairs to yank open the door. John rolled his eyes and dropped back onto all fours, following sedately behind the over-excited man.

Standing out in the street, sunglasses perched on his nose, was Detective Inspector Lestrade, and about a hundred crates of books. Behind him was a pair of matching police cars, two more police officers holding a crate each, and another pair of officers pulling yet more crates out of each car's boot. John couldn't help letting out a small moan of displeasure at the sight.

"What are you waiting for? Bring them inside at once and stack them in the living room." Without speaking further, Sherlock bounded back up the stairs and returned to staring at the messy web he'd created on the wall.

Lestrade groaned as he dragged up a crate and started trudging his way up to the flat. "Hey fella," he addressed the old dog sitting on the landing, shifting his burden to his hip to give the animal a pat on the head. "Bet he's driving you nutters, eh?"

Snorting in answer, John made his way back into the flat and up hopped into the leather chair nearest the kitchen, trying to keep himself out from under foot. Tucking his tail around his feet, he watched as the room became more and more cluttered with crates and bins. Sherlock fussed at one or two of the officers if they got too close to something, like his violin or the skull. The detective actually seemed quite agitated at the necessary invasion, eyeing both officers with thinly veiled distaste. Not that they weren't eyeing Sherlock with the same sort of suspicion.

When all the boxes were finally piled inside, Lestrade groaned loudly and massaged his lower back. "That's everything, Holmes. All the crates are marked with the victim's names. Please try not to mix them all up? I'm not going through all this again, and my boss will have the skin off my back if we don't catch this guy because somebody," the DI pointed directly at Sherlock, "screwed up the evidence. Please don't get me fired?"

Dismissing the Inspector with a wave of his hand, Sherlock turned to the first crate, rummaging through it like a homeless man searching a dumpster for food. Lestrade gave John another friendly pat to the head, and motioned for his officers to follow him out. Two of them left without even a parting glance, and the third followed Lestrade's example by giving a scratch to John's ears.

Leaning uncomfortably close to Sherlock, the fourth officer hissed, "Don't screw this up, Freak, or you won't like what happens to you."

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering way, and turned to give the man one of his usual intellectual set-downs. John, however, had already implemented his own form of set-down by launching himself from the chair onto the officer and knocking the man to the floor. Though small, John was no lightweight; he was built of dense, compact muscles and solid bones. Snapping his teeth in the officer's face, John snarled cruelly and let his fangs drip saliva onto the face of the man beneath him.

Unthinking, Sherlock snatched the collar of Mrs. Hudson's little dog and tugged twice. "John! Enough!"

A final snort and John allowed the detective to pull him off the officer, his fur still bristling in waves. When the policeman finally scrambled out the door, looking significantly paler than before, John shook himself all over, from head to tail, and let his fur smooth down. Swallowing down the drool he had allowed to accumulate, he looked up at Sherlock and licked his chops in a satisfied way.

The detective just blinked at him. After a long moment of silence, in which Sherlock released the collar in his hands, John walked back over to the coffee table to continue perusing the medical reports. Continuing to stare at the tiny animal, Sherlock cradled his chin in one hand and placed the other on his hip.

In the hours that followed, Sherlock turned back to his crated books and John delved further and further into the medical reports. Once and a while, Sherlock would throw a book onto the floor at his feet, or throw something at the wall in frustration. One of John's ears might perk towards the doorway, hearing the old cuckoo clock downstairs announce the time. Mostly, all was silence, and the shadows in the room were the only thing that moved.

At one point, Sherlock looked up to find Mrs. Hudson's dog repacking the crate he had just finished dumping unceremoniously on the floor. Even though it was four hours after the initial incident occurred, the detective felt compelled to say, "While unnecessary, your gesture of defense against a perceived threat was appreciated."

To the detective's surprise, John wagged his plumed tail a few times as if pleased by the awkwardly expressed sentiment. Returning to his new task, John continued to refill the crate before him, while Sherlock emptied another. The shadows in the room grew longer and longer, stretching like hungry fingers towards the kitchen wall. Neither man nor beast made any further sound.

Mrs. Hudson did not return to the flat until well after dark, and she found (to her carefully hidden pleasure) both Sherlock and John still hard at work. By now, both John and Sherlock were pacing back and forth in tandem, the detective before the mantle piece with John between the coffee table and sofa. She almost laughed at them both.

"Yoo-hoo!" Martha hooted. "Fancy a bit of dinner, boys?"

Sherlock made some sort of grumbling, sputtering noise of displeasure, flailing his hands dismissively in her general direction. John shook himself all over, huffed in exasperation, and trotted towards the stairs, obviously willing to let things simmer as they were. As Mrs. Hudson and her dog exited the living room, Sherlock threw a heavy book across the room at the door as if to chase them out.

It landed right in front of John's nose after bouncing off the doorframe. He let out a small yip of surprise, but recovered himself quickly. Sniffing at the offending tome, John caught the very faintest whiff of a familiar scent. Getting closer, he found the slim edge of a photograph placed among the pages like a bookmark. It took a bit of manipulation, but he managed to get the book open, and it flopped directly to the page marked by the picture.

A bright red poppy flower dominated the photo, and on the back of it was written the words 'For my beloved Runner X IA'. John stared down at the poem revealed to him, reading slowly, and counting the words. It was the first poem in the book, and to his delight, the fifteenth word was 'down'. Something in his mind itched, but he was so hungry and exhausted he couldn't quite grasp what it was. Closing the book, John picked it up and placed it on the coffee table before heading downstairs.

Scarfing down his dinner in record time, John was more than eager to give his eyes a rest. How Sherlock could continue working without so much as a pause for a bathroom break, he didn't know. Ignoring the genius, who had begun mumbling to himself again, John wearily trudged upstairs in the hope of getting a fair bit of shut-eye.

Downstairs, a violin began shrieking as its musician began butchering the strings, and John shoved his head beneath a pillow to try and keep out the sound. Having canine hearing powers was definitely on his list of drawbacks. Did the man really have to murder the instrument?

Somewhere within a rather horrifying rendition of some sonata, the music morphed into the sound of an Afghani marketplace. The worst part of his war dreams wasn't the fear, or the phantom pains. It was seeing his hands hard at work, stripping cloth from a wound in a poppy field or field stripping his pistol in his bunk. Healer's hands, human hands, moving with swift confidence.

Thinking of poppy fields brought to mind another memory, one that he hadn't thought about in a long time, which he would rather forget. He had been trying to remove a piece of shrapnel from the leg of a young corporal, an American, who's team had been ambushed on the roadside a mile away from the expanse of blood red flowers. They had been chatting about cultural differences when the subject of breakfast foods came up.

"I'm a Special K sort of guy myself," the Yank had grunted, trying to keep a brave face as John attempted to pull a sliver of metal from his knee. "I'm a sucker for a good bowl of cereal."

John had opened his mouth to reply with a scathing remark about the man's terrible choice in food, when the world erupted in gunfire. Opium manufacturers, who had noticed the group of men in their desert camouflage, had rushed to the edge of the field and ambushed them. Men screamed and died on both sides as bullets ripped the air asunder.

Downstairs in the flat, Sherlock tossed his violin back into its case in frustration as the thoughts in his head refused to coalesce into a workable theory. Why couldn't all of the clues just fall into place? Running his fingers through his unruly curls, Sherlock groaned softly. Or at least, he thought he groaned; there was definitely groaning occurring somewhere.

Glancing up at the ceiling, Sherlock wondered if someone was trying to break into the flat. Why else would Mrs. Hudson's dog be snarling like that? Pulling his trusty harpoon from beneath the sofa, the detective mounted the stairs into the attic bedroom, trying to remain as quiet as possible. His caution flew out the window when the dog yelped.

Throwing open the attic door with a reverberating bang, Sherlock pointed his weapon into the darkness. Sitting in the moonlight streaming down from the window, shaking like a leaf, was the dog. It was staring at the closet door across from it, the little head bowed at the shoulders as it quaked. After Sherlock made a short visual sweep of the room and stepped further inside, the detective flicked on the light.

Eyes forlorn, the little dog looked for all the world like it had just been in a long skirmish with a miffed cat. It let out a loud, whimpering moan before collapsing back onto its bed, covering its face with a paw as if embarrassed. Sherlock leaned the harpoon against the wall by the light switch, as if suddenly remembering it wasn't technically polite to rush around one's home dangerously armed, and peered about.

Giving the dog time to collect itself (something he wasn't sure he would ever be able to say he did without being immediately sectioned), the detective let his practiced gaze linger over the low bookshelves and desk. Medical texts and scientific journals crowded the shelves, and sitting on the desk was an open copy of a PDR Drug Guide for Mental Health Professionals. The intellectual décor was offset by the water bowl and dog bed in the corner, where what Sherlock was rapidly beginning to believe was the world's smartest dog still lay.

Since he couldn't verbally thank the detective for allowing him a moment to compose himself, John settled for thumping his tail against the floor a few times. When the detective didn't immediately acknowledge him, John stood up stiffly and walked over to where Sherlock was peering at the books on his shelves. John tried to decide if he should poke the man in the hand with his cold nose when Sherlock let out a gasp of surprise.

Like a giddy schoolboy, Sherlock whipped a brand-new copy of the 15th edition Pill Book. "I didn't even realize this was out yet!"

Without any further ceremony, Sherlock plopped down in the floor and began flipping through pages of the book. Brightness appeared within the detective's pale eyes, which John attributed to the prospect of knowledge expansion. Shaking his head, John made his way slowly back down the stairs to the living room of the flat, yawning hugely. There was no way he was going back to sleep after that dream, so he might as well get back to work.

Propping his forepaws on the table's edge once more, John tried once more to focus his mind on the medical reports. Flashes of his nightmare refused to leave him alone, whispering behind his eyes even as he re-read all the material before him. Down in Mrs. Hudson's flat, he could hear the kettle switching on, and he groaned inwardly. Tea, yes that is what he needed.

Letting his mind wander, John made it halfway down the stairs before the answer crashed over his psyche like a breaking wave. Medications for high blood pressure, the sort of thing a banker might be diagnosed with, caused hyperkalemia - an excess of potassium in the bloodstream. If someone with high blood pressure had been injected with a tranquilizer that increased blood pressure, something undetectable in blood tests, it would have caused their heart to go into cardiac arrest. But what tranquilizer was undetectable in toxin screens?

"John? Is that you? Breakfast is ready!"

Thinking as hard as he could, John trotted his way into the kitchen and snatched up the tray Mrs. Hudson had set up with breakfast for two. Another mug and plate nearby was all the sign he needed to know the tray was for himself and Sherlock. Wagging his tail up at Martha, who gave him a kind pat on the head, John made his way back up to the flat. To his surprise, Sherlock had made his way back down to the leather sofa, and was in the process of examining the poppy picture from the book John had found the previous night.

Sherlock scowled at the dog when he saw the tray of food clutched in its mouth, but John refused to acknowledge his petulance. Ignoring the breakfast plate, Sherlock lifted the mug of tea and stepped over the table again. Placing the book on the mantle, the detective fussed around on his desk until he located his mobile phone, then dug into the drawers until he found a particular file folder. He had a feeling he was going to regret calling his brother.

"Mycroft? That case you wanted me to look into, the dominatrix. I think I may have discovered something we can use against her."


	6. A Study in Blinds (Part 2)

When Mycroft Holmes mounted the stairs up to his younger brother's flat, the last thing he thought he would see was the vision in front of him. It was, perhaps, the first time Mycroft could remember being speechless. He didn't even have the wherewithal to react when Greg Lestrade accidentally bumped into him and apologized softly. Both men stood, mouths gaping in an undignified manner.

Sherlock Holmes, genius and consulting detective, was having an argument with Mrs. Hudson's dog. Well, he was arguing  _at_  the animal anyway, and gesticulating wildly at the folders on the coffee table before him. There was a half-eaten sausage in one of the detective's elegant hands, and in the other, he was holding two books of poetry. The dog, John, was pacing back and forth in front of the table, growling in a frustrated way.

"Don't use that tone of growl with me, John!" Sherlock shouted. "I mean, really, who else but a drama queen would choose numerous works of Edgar Allan Poe as a codebook for drug running?"

John just snarled more loudly, planting one forepaw firmly on the edge of the coffee table and patting the other down on the medical reports lay out before him. Sherlock dropped the books he was holding onto the leather sofa with a loud slap. Pointing a finger at two photos of a poppy sitting on the table, the detective snapped, "She's a bloody dominatrix! You think someone who gives pain to people for a living doesn't have some kind of medical training?"

Since Lestrade seemed very busy trying to swallow his hand in order to stifle his laughter, it fell to Mycroft to gain his brother's attention. Clearing his throat loudly, the elder Holmes thumped his umbrella loudly against the floor as he entered the living room and sat down in one of the leather chairs. Lestrade took a little longer to collect himself before moving inside as well, pausing to give the old dog a fond rub to the head. After finishing his sausage and glaring at John, Sherlock flopped backwards onto the sofa and shouted for his landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson is out, I believe, Sherlock," Mycroft related, "seeing as her flat is locked up tight and all the lights are off."

Ignoring his brother, Sherlock shouted again, "Mrs. Hudson! Tea!"

The dog let out an exasperated huff and plodded his way into the kitchen, shaking himself from nose to tail. Greg watched him go with a fond smile on his face, which turned into a grimace as the silence of the room reached a deafening level. Did the brothers do nothing but glare at each other?

As neither man seemed willing to speak, Lestrade coughed and tossed the manila folder he was carrying onto the coffee table. "That's the finished file on Mr. Van Coon. I had Molly put a rush on all the chemical analyses so you could have them as soon as possible."

Without any show of gratitude, Sherlock flipped the folder open and started digging into the facts. He laid the folder out next to the other three, comparing the medical reports and humming when he noticed the similarities amongst them all. Not bothering to look at the men invading his space, Sherlock stood and began digging back into the books in the crate on his left.

"Can we please put your petulance to the side, Sherlock? Both Detective Inspector Lestrade and I have other places we need to be, you know."

"Yes, of course I know. Lestrade has a press conference in exactly four more hours, and you of course have that dinner engagement with the senior undersecretary. I don't know why you condescended to physically deliver the file on Ms. Adler, and to tell the truth I really don't care. Thank you, John."

Both Mycroft and Greg had to keep their eyes from falling out of their heads when the dog appeared at Sherlock's side with a platter of three steaming mugs of tea clenched in its jaws. John approached both men calmly, sitting and waiting until each man held his own mug of tea before walking back into the kitchen. Mycroft and Greg stared at the mugs in their hands before shrugging and taking their first sips. It was surprisingly good tea, and had been prepared with just enough milk and sugar to be drinkable. After a long moment filled with the sound of something lapping water in the kitchen, the dog returned and lay down right next to the stack of crates Sherlock was emptying.

The detective let out a satisfied sigh as he pulled another work of Mr. Poe from the crate, pulling another poppy picture from its pages. As he haphazardly tossed the books back into the crate, Sherlock said, "I have reason to believe that Ms. Adler is using her employment as a dominatrix as a front to cover the fact that her clients are bringing opium into Britain."

Lestrade was gob smacked, to say the least, but Mycroft just seemed mildly amused. "What brought this idea on, little brother?"

"Isn't it obvious, brother dear? All these pictures of poppies, from which the drug opium is manufactured, and the way they are inscribed to their receivers? Judging by the state of these men, being a 'runner' certainly doesn't mean they are avid joggers." He sucked down a huge draught of tea before flitting across the room to the last stack of crates. "One of the many things listed in that file is the GPS logs that you've been keeping on her town car. If I'm right, which, let's face facts, is always, then there should be a correlation between her movements and the arrivals of the victims at Heathrow."

With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft held out the folder he had been carrying, waiting for his brother to take it. Sherlock completely ignored his brother and continued to rustle through the crate before him. Grunting softly, John rose up, gently grasped the folder in his jaws, and carried it to the coffee table. Mycroft raised an intrigued eyebrow at the dog's actions, and he couldn't decide if he should be worried or amused.

Inspector Lestrade seemed to have settled for being amused. He couldn't help himself, really, because who but Sherlock Holmes would have an abnormal intelligent pet? The old dog was not particularly off-putting; it had impeccable manners, was obviously intelligent, it didn't drool and slobber all over the place, and it had a quietly dignified air, which afforded it a modicum of respect. Overall, Lestrade couldn't have chosen a better companion for the often child-like genius detective.

After Sherlock exclaimed wordlessly upon finding the final book of poetry with a poppy picture inside it, he sprawled over the couch and took up the fat folder on Ms. Adler. "Is there a reason you two are still here?"

Greg sighed and pulled himself to his feet, "Just, if you're going to confront her, please call me, yeah?"

Sherlock made a humming noise that could have been either a denial or an acceptance. John the dog rose up as Mycroft wordlessly got to his feet, reaching over the coffee table to prod his younger brother with his umbrella. The younger man just flailed in his brother's direction, yelping when he received a harsher-than-necessary poke to the sternum. Silently, John inserted himself between the umbrella and the detective, clamping his jaws around the offending object and refusing to let go.

"Leave, Mycroft. Your presence is no longer required." A devilish smirk formed on Sherlock's face, and he patted John's head twice to make the dog release the umbrella.

Sniffing in disdain, Mycroft turned to follow Inspector Lestrade from the room, frowning at the teeth marks on his umbrella. John escorted them down to the front door, sitting down in the hall and making sure they exited without further prompting. Before they walked out the door, Mycroft wrapped a hand around Lestrade's arm to make the Inspector pause.

"Keep a close eye on my brother, Inspector. I'm beginning to worry more about his sanity than ever before."

"Why? Because he's got a dog? I don't see anything wrong with having a pet."

"Gregory, you and I both know that my brother's," Mycroft hesitated a moment, glancing briefly at the dog still sitting in the hall, " _condition_  makes him incapable of forming a healthy bond with anyone or anything. The last person in the world who should be allowed to have a pet is my brother. He's only been here two days and already he's treating the thing like a person. What will happen if he forgets to feed it, and Mrs. Hudson isn't here to cover his neglect? Or what if he decides to use it as a subject in one of his experiments?"

Lestrade held up a placating hand, "Look, Mr. Holmes, I'll do what I can, but to tell the truth? I think the little old fella is going to be fine. It seems smart enough." Greg hesitated a moment, then said, "Besides, if Sherlock's  _condition_  is as bad as you say, then I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will find someone else to look after the dog."

Sighing softly, the elder Holmes leaned on his umbrella, releasing his hold on the Inspector. "Perhaps you are correct, Inspector." He spared a glance back up the stairs as the sound of a violin concerto floated down from the flat. "I merely worry about him."

"Understandable, but I'm not sure you give him enough credit sometimes. I mean, sure, he can be a colossal git, but he does sometimes recognize when he's gone too far. He's improved quite a bit from the first time I met him."

John listened to the conversation with interest, trying to glean a little insight into the mind of the man upstairs. He stayed in the hallway, staring blankly into space after the two men exited the door. What kind of 'condition' could they have been referring to? It wasn't a medical condition, of that he was sure, even if the man was impossibly thin and didn't seem to sleep.

Trotting back up the stairs as the song tapered off into silence, John peered up at the tall man silhouetted in the window. What was he thinking of? What amazing connections were being made in the windmills of the genius's mind? Shaking his head, John turned his attention to the new medical file on Mr. Van Coon.

Ignoring the dog, Sherlock dropped back down onto the sofa and started methodically going through the file on Irene Adler again. A companionable silence fell over man and beast as the night slowly swept her dark cloak over the azure sky. By the time the clock downstairs clanged the hour of midnight, both Sherlock and John were bleary eyed from reading the reports.

Once again, Sherlock groaned in frustration and stood up to pace around the room, tapping a finger against his lips in thought. John took the opportunity to rest his eyes, and gather up the used mugs. He considered carrying them through the backdoor of Mrs. Hudson's flat, but then decided against it. Instead, he carried them into the flat's kitchen, keeping one eye on the tense detective.

Sherlock turned his eyes to the little dog sitting in the doorway of the kitchen, "I'll have to risk it, there's no other way. Tomorrow I'll visit the vixen in her den." Lifting up his violin, the detective turned his attention to the world beyond the windows. "Go get some sleep, Watson."

While he wasn't thrilled with Sherlock's plan for the next day, John had to admit that he was very tired. Making his way to the stairs up to the attic, he paused and glanced back at the man who had begun to play a sad, lonely melody. A memory from that morning, when he'd returned Mrs. Hudson's tray and plates, wisped through his mind.

" _Don't be too angry or put off with him, dear," Mrs. Hudson had said softly, pointing her finger at the ceiling. "He's a tough nut, Sherlock is, but I think deep down in there, somewhere, is a lost little boy."_

Sighing deeply, John turned back to the living room and paced over to the leather chair that he had begun to think of as his own. Hopping up into it, he curled up on himself and rested his head down on his tail before closing his eyes. The music paused as Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the resting canine. John opened his eyes for a moment, waiting patiently for the music to start again. The detective obliged him, watching as the dog's eyes closed and it sighed.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Morning found a groggy John alone in the flat. Sniffing the air, John could tell that Sherlock wasn't around, and he grumbled discontentedly. Was the detective determined to get himself killed or something? Why would he willingly put himself into the hands of a drug-running dominatrix? Wasn't it a little early for such things?

Trotting stiffly down the stairs, John could smell breakfast cooking in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and he made his way into the room. Martha was standing before the stove, pushing a few sausages around in a pan, humming softly to herself. At the sound of John's claws on the linoleum, she turned and smiled down at his sleepy face.

"Sherlock's flitted off this morning. I saw him rush off when I picked up the morning paper. He seemed rather determined when he caught a cab." Sliding a pair of hard-boiled eggs and some blood sausage onto a plate, she laid it on the floor in front of John. "Eat up, dear; you'll need some strength to chase him down."

Letting out a little whimper of unhappiness, John filled his belly with the food, and woke his weary mind with a full cup of tea. Suitably fortified, John trotted back upstairs to poke his nose into the file on Irene Adler, searching for an address. Once he found it, he returned downstairs to shrug on his olive harness and collar.

"Be careful, John." Mrs. Hudson clipped the harness shut and scratched him behind the ear. "Sherlock's known for getting himself into dangerous situations. You'd best hurry and catch him up."

With a wag of his tail, John slipped out the front door, nose to the ground. He wouldn't be able to track the detective, since the man had probably taken a cab, but he could tell how long the man had been gone by the scent's strength. Shaking himself and getting a hold on his bearings, John set off at a steady, rapid pace. Using the sun as his compass, he darted down alleys and through holes in fences in his haste. At one point he did get himself turned around, but by darting into the Underground and utilizing a wall map, he soon righted himself.

His sense of duty kept him from feeling completely ridiculous as he lapped up water from random road puddles to keep himself hydrated. Luckily, he didn't feel hungry, since he'd had breakfast; after all those months before his impounding, he never wanted to eat raw pigeon or rat again. To the core of his being, John was a survivor, and he would do just about anything to stay alive. That didn't mean he had to like it.

Rounding the corner onto the private road on which Ms. Adler had her own mansion, John paused mid-step and glanced at his surroundings. Four roads south of her home/business, was Mr. Van Coon's newly built home, and three roads east was another victim's home. John closed his eyes and brought up what he knew of the other two dead bankers, and realized with a jolt they, too, had their homes nearby to the north and the west. Coincidences were piling up, and if there was anything John still believed in, it was that everything happened for a reason, especially coincidences.

Slowing his pace, John carefully slipped into the beautifully tapered bushes on the roadside, hoping to circle around the back of the house and find a way inside. He glided around beds of poppies and snapdragons, shrugged through shrubberies, and finally paused halfway between an azalea and a rhododendron. Splayed out before him, stalks waving in the breeze, were two sprawling gardens of foxglove.

If he could have smiled, John would have. Just a bit of digitalis in addition to the high-blood pressure medications the bankers were prescribed would cause bradycardia, and a large dose, mixed with a sedative of some sort, would be enough to cause a weakened heart to fail. There was more than enough foxglove here that if someone purloined enough to make four deadly dosages, it would never have been noticed. The men had probably ended up asphyxiating against the floor, unable to move themselves enough to breathe.

When he finally approached the back of the house, John perked up his ears and put his nose on high alert. Considering what he had gathered about Sherlock, the detective had probably gone in the front of the house, so he wasn't worried when the man's scent wasn't immediately in his nose. Glancing up at the windows and doors, John searched for an easy way into the building. None of the windows were open, and he didn't have the thumbs necessary for utilizing the doorknob. Letting out a quiet sigh, he snuck towards the corner of the house.

An old-fashioned cellar door was wide open, and with only a cursory sniff and a short moment of listening, John ghosted into the cellar. Careful to walk slowly, so the 'tick-tick' of his claws would not alert anyone of his presence, he made his way deeper into the house, keeping his nose and ears tuned for trouble. There seemed to be no one around, which he found a little odd.

Nudging open a door, John found himself in a tidy pantry that was stocked with vegetables and tied bundles of foxglove in various stages of drying. Within the other scents of the room, the barest hint of cocoa butter caught his attention, and he followed the trail to a latched cabinet hidden behind a false wall. With a little ingenuity, John managed to finagle the latch open and stared wide-eyed at three shelves full of vials of the tranquilizer Ketamine.

The words 'Special K' floated through his mind, the dream from last night floating quietly behind his eyes. Ketamine was a drug used as an anesthetic, and it metabolized very quickly, which would explain why it hadn't showed up in any of the victims' tox screens. Popping back out of the pantry, John searched quickly for something he could use as a pouch. There was no way he was leaving evidence like this behind.

To his delight, he found a small box of leather bags stamped with Ms. Adler's poppy motif. Thanking his lucky stars, John used the corner of a table to shrug off his harness. Dodging back into the pantry, he snatched up a vial of the drug, and a small bunch of foxglove. Both prizes were stuffed into the pouch, which he pulled shut and tied to the top of his harness. Slipping back into it, he set off again in search of a way into the main part of the house.

He squeezed his way through a doorway into a stairwell and snuck up into the kitchen, hiding beneath a counter when two chefs bustled down the aisle. Managing to keep himself out of sight, John finally gained access to the inner house and put his nose to the floor, seeking out his charge. Sherlock's scent began at the front door, just as John had suspected, and continued to a discrete wooden door down the hall from the entrance.

Though muffled through the wood, John could clearly make out Sherlock's deep voice admonishing someone. "It was a clever idea," the detective was saying in a bored manner, "but unfortunately for you I am more than clever. Now, I'm sure once the police and the government have a go at your lovely home here, everything I have not deduced will fall neatly into place."

A soft sound from somewhere upstairs called John's attention to his own visibility. Ducking beneath a hall table and making himself as small as possible, John listened intently for the noise again. Someone's body had fallen to the floor, and expensive shoes were sneaking down the carpeted stairs on his immediate left. The scent of smoke drifted into the air and the fire alarm in the house began to beep at a piercing decibel.

John could hear, beneath the wailing alarm, the sound of feet stampeding out of the house. Presumably, the person who still pussyfooted their way down the stairs was headed for the room in which Sherlock remained. Chancing a peek out of his hiding spot, John searched for the owner of the creeping steps.

A man with a terrible fake tan, dressed in a black suit, was sidling his way along the wall, edging towards the wooden door. More footsteps on the carpeting alerted John to two more men loping along the floor, one of whom was trying to put out a burning newspaper by slapping it against his hand. All three men carried standard .9ml handguns in a combat ready position. John did not like the way this was panning out.

Two men busted into the room, shouting for Sherlock and the other person to put their hands in the air. The wooden door swung shut behind them, the third man still stomping on the charred paper. With his backside presented to John, and a heavy, marble chest directly in front of the man's head, the man cursed at the sooty mess on his shoes.

It was all the incentive John needed to barrel out of his hiding spot and ram his solid weight against the man's rear. His head hit the marble chest with a sickening sound, and he crumpled to the floor. Snorting softly in satisfaction, John kicked the gun down the entrance hallway, and perked his ears at the door. Inside, he could hear Sherlock arguing with the other two men, who were obviously American by their accents. Leaning more and more of his weight against the door, John managed to open it just enough to slip inside. Taking up some of the space beneath a claw-legged couch, John took in the scene before him.

On her knees, dressed in a brilliant silk pantsuit of eye-smarting pink, was Irene Adler. She was a lovely woman with a strange amount of cheekiness in her expression considering the pistol bore pressed into the back of her head. Her beauty was alluring and intimidating, and she was staring hungrily at Sherlock as he stared quizzically at a safe above the fireplace.

Sherlock, impeccably dressed, as always, in a perfectly tailored black suit and grape purple silk shirt, was glaring at the safe as if it had insulted his intelligence. The man John had first seen in the hall held his gun against the side of the detective's head, and the expression on his face was one of pure malice. Not that Sherlock looked any happier. The detective never really emoted, as far as John had seen.

"I told you, she hasn't told me any combination." Sherlock growled, glancing sidelong at the woman on her knees.

"We heard her say she gave the combination to you," the detective's captor snarled, pressing his gun harder into Sherlock's head.

Irene, who was trying hard to catch the detective's eye, shifted position, only to have her own watcher wrench her backwards by the hair. Sherlock locked eyes with her, and followed her unspoken glance towards the vase to the left of the safe. Nodding, the detective turned his attention back to the safe, his head cocking to the side. Gasping in sudden recognition, he punched in a series of numbers before opening the steel box.

Before the man covering him could finish reaching inside the safe, Sherlock shoved the vase to the left on the mantle. Movement beneath the coffee table caught the dog's attention, and John watched a hidden gun fire a bullet into the knee of the man behind Ms. Adler. Deftly, Sherlock took down the gun-wielding American beside him, and Irene pulled a riding crop from beneath the sofa cushion to lash across her attacker's face.

Fishing out the single object within the safe, Sherlock flipped the object in his hands in a smugly satisfied way. Unfortunately, Irene used his distraction to her own advantage. Sidling up behind him, John saw the glint of light off a steel needle as she pulled the hypodermic from her pocket. Fearing the worst, John sprung into action, racing out from his hiding place and slithering between her moving legs.

Irene fell down rather ungracefully, letting out a startled squawk as she bounced down onto the carpet. Sherlock immediately jumped to his left, throwing his arm up as if to protect himself. Quick as lightning, John closed his jaws none-too-gently around Irene's slim wrist and shaking it until she dropped the syringe. He used one of his rear paws to push her other shoulder against the floor, unwilling to find his back laid open by the riding crop still in her other hand.

Refusing to release her, John glanced up into Sherlock's face. The detective looked utterly stunned, his eyes wide and mouth parted slightly. John allowed his tail to wag gently a few times, and the movement seemed to snap Sherlock out of whatever momentary lapse he'd been frozen in. The shock which had been present on Sherlock's face, seamlessly turned into a smug smirk, and he sauntered over to look the long way down into Irene's surprised visage.

"How the mighty have fallen," the detective quipped, saluting her with his prize and turning to leave the room. "Come along, Watson, we're done here."

John didn't release the woman until Sherlock walked out the door. Before she realized what was happening, he snatched up the other men's weapons, and flitted out the door himself. Somewhere between the main staircase and the enclosed foyer, John spat out the guns on the floor, and then set off at a fast trot to catch up with the detective's long strides. To his surprise, Sherlock was waiting with his hand on the front door knob and a comically bored look on his face.

They were just beginning to walk down the cobbled path leading down from the front door when Sherlock paused, looking down at the small canine that was face to knee with him. Smirking when he saw the pouch haphazardly hanging from the dog's harness, Sherlock slipped his prize into his trouser pocket, and bent down on one knee to retrieve the tiny bag of evidence before it fell. As their eyes met, Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitch into the tiniest hint of a true smile, an expression that had not graced his features in untold years.

"This time your gesture of defense was indeed appreciated. For an animal, John, you are quite," Sherlock paused, unsure of what he wanted to say. Shrugging instead, he condescended to solidly patting the dog twice on its back.

Standing up, the detective straightened out his coat and scarf, smoothing the material down over his hips. John scratched at his neck before shaking himself thoroughly, trying to resettle the harness over his shoulders. Both man and dog managed three steps each before the world behind them exploded.


	7. A Scandal in Pink

His first thought upon waking was that someone had stuffed his head with cotton without his consent. Everything sounded muffled and distorted, and whoever was standing beside him had put on far too much cologne. The smell of antiseptic and sickness drilled into his nose, clinging to his nasal passages. Opening his eyes was an action immediately regretted, as his corneas were suddenly seared with harsh, fluorescent light. God, did he hate hospitals.

Groaning loudly, Sherlock attempted to lift his right arm over his eyes to block out the painful light. It was a horrendously bad decision; his shoulder had been painfully dislocated. Somewhere above him a familiar voice was mumbling his name, but it the rest of the words were too deep for him to understand. Obviously the explosion had knocked out his hearing, or Mycroft would be far more irritating.

The explosion! Suddenly recalling himself, the detective replayed his last memories in his mind's eye. Had the smart phone he'd taken from Irene Adler's safe survived the blast? Maybe that was what Mycroft was mumbling on about. Sherlock's whole body stilled. What had happened to the little dog?

Forcing his eyes open, the genius took stock of his injuries and his visitors with a painful sweep of his eyes. Judging by the bandages over his shoulder, it hadn't been dislocated; it had been pierced by debris. Obviously there were burns and scrapes in addition to that, and one of his ankles felt sprained. His eardrums had probably been ruptured from the blast, which would explain the slowly rising ringing that had begun to whine in his head. Above him, Mycroft stood chatting with a doctor and a nurse, holding a legal pad and pen in one hand.

The pad of paper was thrust into his line of sight:  **Your Doctor says your hearing should return in a week at most.**

Sherlock glared up at Mycroft and tried to keep himself from shouting, "Got what you needed?"

Mycroft flipped pages and wrote something before dangling it in front of his brother's eyes:  **It is being decoded now.**

"Good. What about her?"

More scribbling ensued:  **She absconded before the blast. Only a matter of time before we bring her in. We do not yet know what caused the explosion. Detective Inspector Lestrade is outside.**

"Joy of joys. Send him in?"

Frowning minutely, Mycroft beckoned to one of the suited body guards in the corner of the room and flicked his fingers at the door. Sherlock rolled his head slightly to watch as Lestrade traipsed in carrying a wad of blankets in his arms. The sour look on Mycroft's face made Sherlock wonder what was in the bundle. It wasn't until the DI rounded the bed that the detective caught sight of a golden furred head fixing him with a piercing blue stare.

Laying the dog beside Sherlock's uninjured arm, Lestrade gave the consulting genius an apologetic, but still cheeky, smirk. He opened his mouth to speak, but the elder Holmes shoved the notepad in his face and (Sherlock assumed) scolded the policeman for forgetting Sherlock's temporary deafness. Instead of watching the DI struggle to write down his thoughts, the genius turned his attention to the canine shifting beside him.

There was a red welt halfway up the animal's muzzle, but otherwise Sherlock could see no other injuries, although anything could have been hidden beneath the blanket. John dropped his head onto his paws, a scant few inches from the detective's hand, and just stared into Sherlock's eyes. Lestrade tapped the man on the shoulder, and waited until Sherlock looked up before revealing the notepad.

It read:  **Mrs. Hudson went to get tea. She insisted I bring him in. He saved your life.**

"How?"

More scribbling (Sherlock made a mental note to make fun of the DI for sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth in concentration):  **Carried you on his back all the way to the road. Mycroft had men waiting to collect you before the building went up. You'd have bled to death otherwise.**

Sherlock turned his gaze back on the dog beside him, only to find it resting quietly with its eyes closed. Why had the little dog done something like that? Better yet, Sherlock was over six feet tall and nearly all limbs. How had the dog managed to get him on its back? Shifting his uninjured arm, the genius placed his hand on the little dog's head, furrowing his brow at the warm fur beneath his hand. One of John's eyes opened, then closed again, and he huffed against the underside of the detective's arm.

Mrs. Hudson bustled through the door, carrying a pair of drink trays full of cups of tea. The nurse and doctor declined her kind offering and took their leave. Mycroft gracefully accepted a cup, as did Lestrade, and both men sat down in the chairs at Sherlock's bedside. Martha fussed at the bed until Sherlock was sitting more or less upright and able to drink the tea she pushed into his left hand. Stroking the sleeping dog's head very gently, Mrs. Hudson borrowed the notepad off the DI and settled herself on the side of the bed.

Her handwriting was flowery, but legible:  **I'm so glad you're okay, Sherlock! You had us very worried, dear!**

"No need to fuss, Mrs. Hudson. I have been through much worse."

Scandalized, Mrs. Hudson started to get teary-eyed, and Sherlock inwardly cursed himself for his social ineptitude. A sharp pain blossomed in the detective's arm, and he turned to find John's jaws putting pressure on his wrist. Taking the gesture as an admonishment, Sherlock mumbled an apology at his landlady, who wrapped her arms around him in a warm, motherly hug.

"When can I return to the flat?"

Mycroft snatched up the notepad:  **You will remain here overnight for observation. Perhaps tomorrow you may return to the flat.**

Sherlock mumbled angrily and tried to cross his arms over his chest, only to let out an involuntary whimper as he jostled his right arm. Cursing to himself, he slammed his half-empty tea cup down on the bed, a scant hairsbreadth from John's nose. The dog let out an indignant snort, and leaned sideways, suffusing Sherlock's cold leg with a surprising amount of warmth. Looking down into the scolding blue stare of his furry savior, Sherlock shoved the cup forward, offering the dog a taste.

John's scolding stare turned to a look of surprise. After regarding the cup in Sherlock's hand, and the face of the detective, a few times, John lifted his head up to lap up the last few sips of the sweetened liquid. The blanket on his back slipped down, and revealed a large, white bandage wrapped around John's left shoulder and back.

"So, not unscathed after all," Sherlock twitched his head at the dog's back.

Furry head tilting to the side, John sighed wearily and laid his head atop Sherlock's thigh, then stared up into the genius's eyes. Suddenly awkward, Sherlock hesitantly laid his hand against the dog's neck, letting his dexterous fingers card through the soft fur of John's ruff. John's eyes slid shut as if they were simply too heavy to hold open any longer.

Martha smiled behind her cup at the sight, while Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged inquiries and information. Sherlock's mouth quirked at the corners, almost imperceptibly, as he stroked the silky fur beneath his hand, and Mrs. Hudson was watching him just close enough to see it. She would have to insist John be allowed to keep the young man company for the extent of the hospital stay.

Reaching for the pen and paper, Martha scribbled a few thoughts down and tapped her tenant on the arm. When he glanced at her, she held up the pad:  **He was in quite a state when they dragged you into the hospital. Your brother's men told me he wouldn't let them take him to a vet until someone gave them word you were going to be alright.**

His left eyebrow twitched in a minute expression of surprise, and the detective turned his eyes back to the dog resting peacefully against him. Drawing a bit of his lower lip between his teeth, Sherlock struggled to understand the odd pooling of warmth that blossomed in the proverbial pit of his stomach. It was only a tiny amount of heat, to be sure, and it wasn't uncomfortable, but it was definitely not something he had ever experienced before.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mrs. Hudson jump in surprise as Mycroft suddenly loomed above her and demanded the paper and pen. Frowning at his sibling's rudeness, the detective opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it when he observed his brother's face. Something was amiss.

Frowning, Mycroft held out the paper:  **The decoding is finished, and she has eluded us temporarily by leaving the country. New information mentions another player: person by name of 'Moriarty'. Preliminary results show subject has eyes and ears, and sometimes hands, in many sensitive places.**

Grousing irritably, Sherlock said, "Who is Moriarty?"

To the genius's shock, Mycroft shrugged his shoulders in ignorance. Both of the detective's eyebrows lifted and then lowered as a chilling smile spread across his face. It was like the holidays had arrived early for him; a new player meant a new game. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade shared concerned glances that he could see in the edge of his vision, but he chose to ignore it for the time being. The game was, potentially, on.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

'B' is for breaking the toaster oven with a hammer. 'O' is for overextending the door of the kitchen to test the flexibility of the hinges. 'R' is for ranting at the television at the top of his lungs until his voice gave out. 'E' is for exploding pig eyeballs in the microwave. 'D' is for driving poor old John round the twist by shooting a gun at the walls.

To paraphrase, Sherlock was BORED, with a capital everything. Granted, he had nearly been blown to smithereens (something which probably should have bothered him more) not long ago, but his mind still felt like it was stagnating. John was a small distraction, insofar as Sherlock loved watching him make tea (it seriously never got old), and mostly kept to himself since the detective had discovered the joys of studying the effects of an illegal handgun on damask wallpaper.

The constant ringing in Sherlock's ears was driving him even further towards a proper sectioning. He couldn't hear when the microwave dinged, or when he got a text message, or when Mycroft climbed the stairs for an unexpected visit, or anything at all other than an angry, high-pitched buzzing noise. It made him feel like there were two huge flies circling his ears. There was no way he was going to make it the whole week without injecting himself with some kind of narcotic.

Not that John would have stood for that. Every time Sherlock brought home an illegal substance, the dog sniffed it out in moments and disposed of it. Normally, the detective would have been angry about that, but soon he used it as a small way to occupy himself. How many drugs could the little fellow identify? Was he able to detect even trace amounts? Could he become just as addicted to cocaine as a person?

When that thought appeared in his head, Sherlock nearly slapped himself. As ignorant as he was of when things were or were not considered appropriate or socially acceptable, that was one thought he pushed fervently into the 'NOT GOOD' category. John had basically saved his life for no other reason than that it was the proper thing to do, and for Sherlock to even entertain the notion of causing the dog harm was utterly disgusting to him.

Instead of deciding more ways to utilize the dog for his (vitally important) experiments, Sherlock hefted his laptop onto his lap and began to research dogs and dog ownership. Though John was, technically, Mrs. Hudson's dog, he still spent a large amount of time in the detective's presence. Sherlock believed it would be remiss of him not to understand everything there was about the furry beast that had saved his life.

Twice he attempted to engage John in a game of fetch; all he received was a long-suffering glare and a wonderful view of the dog's rear as it sauntered up the stairs. Tug-of-war was attempted once with one of Sherlock's old shirts, but John refused to do something so very childish. Trying to get John to chase a laser pointer was equally fruitless, especially when Sherlock remembered that John was more intelligent than some humans he knew. Maybe he could get Anderson to chase the laser. Best save that thought for another time.

John had a vague inkling of what Sherlock was attempting to do; he was even flattered by the notion. The detective's execution left something to be desired, but John reminded himself that he was, in fact, a dog, and would be so for an indeterminate span of the foreseeable future. Like the kind-hearted being he was, John compromised by setting out to show Sherlock what he did enjoy.

He seemed surprised the first time John carried his leash upstairs, already kitted up in his harness, and dropped it into the detective's lap. Understanding that it would be a way to escape the confines of the flat, Sherlock readily agreed to take him for a walk, throwing on his coat and scarf as rapidly as his still-healing injuries would allow. It was rather pleasant to be outside in the London air, and John was an exceedingly good companion as the genius tended to talk to himself. Sherlock calculated that he received exactly 58.3% less odd looks from passersby if he addressed his speech to John, rather than to the air itself. Walks became a new part of their routine within a day.

One night, when a heavy snowstorm blew vengefully through the city streets, John trotted downstairs to find Sherlock prodding a fire to life in the hearth. Making his way into the kitchen, John prepared two cups of tea and carried Sherlock's in to where the detective sat in his armchair. The man must have been in an odd mood, as he thanked John softly before bringing the mug to his lips. Not usually one for pleasantries, Sherlock often forwent 'pleases' and 'thank yous', so John marked the occasion with a few wags of his tail.

When John brought his own cup in and lounged on the floor in front of the fire, Sherlock sighed grandly and curled his legs up beneath him. "Two days until Christmas, John. Mycroft has demanded I attend his company party, while Mrs. Hudson insists I join her for dinner. While I would much rather spend the time alone, I would rather listen to our landlady's idle chatter than be forced to attend a celebration with Mycroft."

Unable to give a verbal answer, John simply regarded the man intensely, as if Sherlock were the only thing that mattered. Instead of rambling, as the detective was often wont to do, Sherlock took a healthy swig of tea and stared into the fire. The slightest of frowns wrinkled the detective's flawless forehead.

For a long space of time, the only sound in the room was the soft crackling of gas-fed flames. Suddenly, Sherlock spoke again in a soft whisper, "I despise Mycroft's so-called 'parties'. They are more like bacchanals." His nose wrinkled with distaste, and his mouth pursed as if he had just bitten into something sour. "The only time I have ever attended one, after hearing so many tales of grandeur and glee, I was disturbed to say the least." Sherlock shivered at the memory.

Something cold nudged the detective's hand and he looked down to find John's little face resting on his knee. The left corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards briefly, and he gently patted the dog's head. It was actually rather enjoyable, this calm that seemed to seep into his racing mind whenever the dog invaded his personal space; almost addictive really, and Sherlock knew a thing or two about addiction. The strange warmth that he had enjoyed in the hospital coiled in his chest again, and this time he took the proper time to examine it.

Comfort. He was comforted by the dog's presence, by the soft feel of fur beneath his hand and the living warmth of the compact body. When John listened to him, the silence was not oppressive or judgmental, in fact it often held an incredulous interest that Sherlock found rather pleasant, and that comforted him as well. It had been a great many years since he had felt anything at all, besides the disturbing darkness which often infected his thoughts if his mind was left idle for too long.

"Needless to say," Sherlock spoke again in a low, soft voice, "I shall spend Christmas here, quietly, with Mrs. Hudson and you. Hopefully that will keep Mycroft satisfied."

John's ears pulled back against his head as he picked up on the sadness seeping into Sherlock's tone. Mental stagnation for Sherlock Holmes, which John had been carefully studying for the past few days, seemed to consist of a day of calm relaxation, followed by the childish destruction of property, and now the lethargy of depression seemed to be creeping up within him. John could barely handle his own troubles without adding the weight of another's. In fact, the only time he seemed to be able to take his mind off his own heartache, was when he was trying to keep the detective out of trouble.

Pulling his head out of Sherlock's lap, John jogged up the stairs to his bedroom and snatched up three blankets. Dragging them back down the stairs, being careful not to trip and wrench his shoulder again, John laid and folded two of them together in front of the fire. Ignoring Sherlock's intrigued stare, he returned to his room again and snatched a well-worn book from a shelf. When he reached the living room again, he dropped the book on the floor and approached the detective shyly.

Closing his front teeth gently on the edge of Sherlock's sleeve, John gave a light tug on the fabric. When all he received from a second tug was a raised eyebrow, John switched his grip to the leg of the man's trousers. The detective's brow began to wrinkle in what might have been anger, so John gave a playful little growl and bent his front legs in a bow, his tail wagging gently. Sherlock came dangerously close to smiling, his whole face smoothing out until he looked nearly half his age. John tugged again, eyes darting to the blankets, and the detective rose gracefully and settled himself cross-legged before the dancing flames.

Fussing with the third blanket until it was draped just-so over Sherlock's shoulders, John then snatched up the book and curled up beside the detective. Dropping the book in Sherlock's lap, John laid his head back on the man's knee and waited. As Sherlock lifted the book in his hand, he traced the faded lettering of the cover before gently opening the small tome and reading the title.

"I didn't realize you were a Dickens fan, John," the detective said gently, carefully turning the yellowed pages to the first chapter of 'A Christmas Carol'. He read silently to himself until John made an encouraging noise, something halfway between a whimper and a groan. Sherlock chuckled and returned to begin reading the story aloud.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs a few hours later, dinner for both man and dog on a tray in her hands, and nearly dropped the whole thing in shock. Before the fire, Sherlock lay, fast asleep, with his head resting on John's furry shoulders. One of the detective's arms was resting on the floor around the curled body of his companion, a book long since released from his hand splayed spine up on the floor. Careful not to disturb either sleeper, Martha placed the food gently in the oven, on low, to keep it warm until one or both of her tenants were roused by the smell. The smile she wore as she quietly shut the door was brighter than the sun.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Christmas day on Baker Street dawned rather brightly, the sun shining blindingly over a blanket of pure white beneath a clear azure sky. Sherlock brought the rest of 221b's inhabitants to full wakefulness with a hauntingly lovely rendition of 'The Holly and the Ivy' on his violin. John was the first to enter the living room, taking in the figure silhouetted in the window hunched over the violin. Making no sound, he ghosted into the kitchen and started the process of making tea. Mrs. Hudson joined them on the tails of the fading notes, entering with breakfast just as they took the first sip of their morning cuppas.

For the first time in years, Sherlock spent a holiday at peace. Mrs. Hudson gifted him with a beautifully knit afghan, which he immediately draped over his legs on the sofa. John dropped a worn, original copy of 'Grey's Anatomy' into the detective's lap, and waved his tail almost frantically when Sherlock verbally thanked him. The flat was warmed by the gas fire, endless cups of tea, and good company. Mrs. Hudson was a surprising wealth of knowledge in regards to London's more unsavory pastimes.

Sherlock and John even managed to have a pleasant walk through the park, despite having to dodge a plethora of children having a snowball fight. Both snorted at the antics of the little boys and girls yelling and running around, and John let out an odd, huffing laugh when a wild snowball burst against the back of Sherlock's long coat. The detective retaliated by scooping a large amount of powdery snow off a hanging sign as they passed a tavern. Shaking himself thoroughly, John foolishly flopped his front end to the ground right in a puddle, frantically pawing at his face.

As John snorted crazily and shook his head, trying to get the water out of his nose, a deep, warm chuckle worked its way out of Sherlock's throat. Looking up in surprise, John saw that Sherlock was just as shocked at the sound as he was. Cautiously, John wagged his tail slowly back and forth. Once again the left corner of the detective's mouth twitched upward, except this time it stayed up in a perfect smirk. The expression remained until they returned back to the flat, where Mycroft was waiting in the foyer, being chatted at by Mrs. Hudson.

Looking down his long nose, the elder Holmes sniffed disdainfully at the sodden canine and shook his head. "We have located Ms. Adler. Come along, brother."

"Surely you are more than capable of interviewing her yourself."

"I assure you, I would be more than capable of doing so if I possessed the correct equipment."

"Such as?"

"An Ouija board."

One of Sherlock's dark eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Very well then, take me to the scene. Come along, John."

"The dog remains with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. It is soaking wet and I am not having it anywhere near the seats of my car."

Both of Sherlock's brows slammed together thunderously, "Then we will follow in a cab. John is coming, Mycroft. I may require his heightened senses."

The brothers stood silently for a long moment, locked in a mental war with each other. Finally, Mycroft let out a nasally sigh and motioned for Sherlock to lead the way out of the house. The detective tugged smugly at his scarf and made a shooing motion at John until they exited the door. Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, was forced to spread a towel, kindly offered by Mrs. Hudson, along the floor to keep John from wetting the fabric. Just to be contrary, John rolled around on it before settling at Sherlock's feet.

"Where is this crime scene, Mycroft?" Sherlock favored John with a twitch of his lips before turning a stern glare at his brother.

"Lauriston Gardens in Brixton, Sherlock. She was found less than an hour ago, and I made it quite clear to the Detective Inspector that until you arrived, nothing would be disturbed."

It might have been completely silent in the rear of the car, if not for Anthea's incessant tapping at her mobile phone. Sherlock ignored both her and his brother, keeping his eyes focused towards the dog resting its head on his shoes. His attention was far away, however, pulling all the information he already knew about Irene Adler to the forefront of his mind.

Finally, the car pulled up to a cordoned off section of roadway, allowing John and Sherlock to scramble out. Ducking under the police tape, the detective ignored the shrewish shouting of Sergeant Donovan, and darted straight into the building before she could sink her nails into his coat sleeve. When Anderson also tried to slow his progress, John snapped impatiently at the analyst's ankles and received a surreptitious pat on the neck for the action.

"The dog again, Sherlock? Really?" Lestrade looked more tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. Instead of continuing to argue, the Inspector waved a hand dismissively. "I can give you five minutes and then I'll need anything you've got."

A manic, chilling grin swept over Sherlock's face as he once again unclipped John's leash and slung it around his neck. Bending over the prone body, he took in the twisted grimace frozen on her face, and the fact that she still wore the same pink suit he had last seen her in. She had used her right hand to scribble a few letters in blood at her side. Her left hand was thrown artlessly over the rather heavy looking laptop resting on her stomach. John sniffed deeply along the opposite side of the prone form, staring quizzically at her stomach.

Taking out his phone, Sherlock snapped a picture of the message Irene Adler had scrawled before dying: BSKRVL RACHE'

"Guess she want's revenge for her death, eh?" Anderson was leaning against the door frame, and Sherlock shot him a withering glance. "'Rache' is German for revenge, you know. I think," the forensic analyst was cut off by Sherlock slamming the door in his face.

"Now that my IQ can fully function," the consulting detective nearly purred, "I would like to point out that she was writing what is probably a username and password for the laptop she's clutching to her stomach, not an angry message in German. Single gunshot wound to the abdomen, I'd say, close range, you can see the bloodstains on either side of her belly. You won't find any fingerprints, but you may lift some rather nice shoeprints from the rear porch. You can't see the rear yard from the road, so whoever she was meeting here probably came and left through the back door."

"You're going to try and take the laptop, aren't you?"

If Lestrade had been a carton of fresh milk, the look Sherlock gave him after that statement would have curdled him on the spot. "Of course I'm not going to try and take the laptop, I'm sure Anderson and his minions will be capable of opening it if they pool their intelligence. Have we never met, Lestrade? It comes with me, and when I'm finished with it I will gladly turn it over to you."

John's head was twitching back and forth as he regarded the laptop, trying to name the familiar scent filling his nostrils. He smelled cocoa butter, of course, and foxglove, and poppies, but there was something else he recognized from his long ago life as a human that caught his memory. No, the smell was not just from his life as a human, it was from his life as a soldier. It was the smell that always preceded men being ripped apart at the seams, and it was coming from beneath the laptop. The same laptop Sherlock was reaching for at that moment.

Without hesitation, John snarled and snapped viciously at the pale hand stretching down to grab hold of the portable computer. Both Sherlock and Lestrade exclaimed in surprise, and they backed up against the closed door as the dog circled the body. Lestrade looked to the detective in askance, and received only a shrug in return. John barked loudly, in a repetitive sequence, and when neither man responded he repeated himself again. While Sherlock's brow descended in a concerned frown, Lestrade's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline.

"Did…did your dog just bark out 'bomb' in Morse code?"

Sherlock ignored the spluttering DI, addressing John directly, "The laptop is a bomb?"

Shaking his head in the negative, John backed up until his head was level with Irene's stomach. Without touching her corpse, John dug at the carpet and then pointed his nose at her belly. Neither man seemed to understand, so John barked out the code for 'in' and pointed once again at the corpse.

"The bomb is inside her." Sherlock said it as a statement, but John still nodded sharply as if it were a question. "So the laptop is connected to a bomb in her stomach."

Placing a paw over his nose, John groaned in exasperation. Unable to get Sherlock's focus off the laptop, he moved closer to the men and pounced down on the floor. The DI and the detective exchanged incredulous glances and shrugs before refocusing on the miffed expression John was now aiming at them. Moving forward, he leaned himself against Sherlock's legs, his blue eyes pleading for the man to understand.

"I'm not going to pet you until you explain yourself, John." Sherlock snapped.

Groaning again, John lifted himself onto his hindquarters, leaning on both men, then he pulled back and leaned forward again. Dropping back onto all fours, he looked up expectantly. Two pairs of blank stares answered him back, and John readied himself to start barking again.

"Pressure?" Lestrade asked tentatively.

John's whole body shook as his tail wagged vigorously, and Sherlock slapped himself in the forehead with a perturbed sigh. At Lestrade's questioning glance, the detective grumbled, "The laptop is sitting on a bomb set with a pressure switch. If we remove the laptop, the bomb explodes, and we lose a lot more than information."

"I'll call the bomb squad, yeah?" Lestrade turned and left the room, his skin blanched beneath his tan.

Sherlock groaned unhappily as he left the room and slid down the wall in the hallway to sit. Prancing smugly up beside the genius, John nudged one of his friend's arms, where they lay crossed over the detective's knees. With a wry twist of his lips, Sherlock scratched his companion's ears with both gloved hands, combing some of the dog's ruff with his long fingers.

"Lestrade is never going to let me live down not understanding your charade, you know," the detective murmured. "You and I are going to have to spend a few days coming up with a better system of communication if this partnership is going to function correctly."

John head-butted the detective's knees in apology, and made a soft grunting sound as a form of consent. Man and dog watched a pair of officers, dressed in heavy body armor and carrying two metal briefcases, trot into the room. Lestrade appeared in the stairwell a moment later and gestured for the detective to follow him. The DI waited as Sherlock reattached John's leash before leading them outside to allow the bomb squad to do their work.


	8. The Baskerville Game

As soon as the laptop booted, it was apparent that it was just a ruse. There was no significant data on it, and the late Ms. Adler's swan-scribble had nothing to do with the machine or information on it. According to Sherlock, the computer was simply designed for the nefarious purpose of driving him 'completely wonky in the cerebellum'. John had snorted at the detective's petulance, and that was when the first dinner plate exploded against the mantle.

Unwilling to submit to the mercurial ravings of his mad friend, John had hastily retreated to his bedroom upstairs. For the past four hours his reading had been interrupted by the sound of shattering porcelain and glass. The noise was starting to move from the realm of somewhat annoying to downright frightening. There was no sign of Sherlock's frustration dissolving, and John had a feeling he would turn to even more destructive means of relief if left to his own devices for very much longer.

Grumbling to himself, John cautiously made his way down to the living room, senses on full alert. He could hear Sherlock mumbling and snarling in the kitchen, obviously rummaging through the cabinets for more dishware. With a shake of his ruff, John surveyed the broken shards glittering on the floor, and the general disarray of the room at large. It was going to take quite a bit of clever maneuvering for John to walk inside without getting glass in his paws.

Sherlock suddenly released a roar of impotent fury and a large, heavy Erlenmeyer flask flew out of the kitchen/laboratory to blast apart on the corner of the coffee table, right in front of John's nose. Letting out a yelp of unbridled shock, John scrabbled against the floor with his claws, trying to get purchase in the worn, wooden floor. He pressed his back against the wall of the hallway with his eyes tightly shut, as memories of men torn apart by shrapnel-filled IEDs assaulted his mind. Pain seared in his muzzle and left forepaw, and while his rational mind squeaked that it was just glass, his subconscious silently poured the pain of a sniper bullet into the wounds.

Surprised by the sound, Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen to shout for John to go upstairs, if he was going to complain. Instead of finding an angry blue stare aimed in his direction, the detective took in the sight before him in dumb silence. Blood was dripping from John's little face and one of his paws, and he was shaking like a leaf, with a look of far-away terror in his usually calm blue eyes. Approaching carefully, Sherlock knelt slowly onto the floor, just shy of the flask's blast radius, and reached out a pale hand as slowly as he could.

"John?" He kept his voice soft and low. "John I didn't mean to hit you. Come along to the bathroom, and I'll try to get the glass out. John?"

When the only response he gained was a whimper and an increase in the dog's trembling, Sherlock settled himself cross-legged on the floor. Gently grasping John's injured leg, the detective was astounded as John practically screamed, leaped up onto all fours and snapped out violently. If Sherlock's reflexes had been any slower, he would have lost his fingers to the white fangs bared in his direction.

Forcing his voice to remain steady, Sherlock tried again to draw John out of the waking dream. "John, you aren't wherever you think you are. You're in 221B Baker Street. I truly did not know you were there when I threw that flask. John, I never meant for you to get hurt. Come along, John, before you injure yourself further."

Still shuddering slightly, the dog's eyes cleared, and after a few more seconds his tail beat sheepishly against the floor. Gathering his limbs together, Sherlock gracefully stood and scooped up the small dog in the same movement. Staggering slightly under the unexpected weight of the compact canine, the detective carried his small friend into the well-lit bathroom, and settled the dog on the closed toilet.

Working in silence, Sherlock carefully removed each shard of glass from John's nose, muzzle, and paw. The dog did not whimper in pain, although he did flinch a few times, and he seemed to be holding his shoulder rather stiffly, so Sherlock took extra care not to drag out the extraction. When he was sure he had gotten every sliver, Sherlock looked John dead in the eye and said the three words a Holmes was taught to never express.

"I am sorry."

John looked surprised, and decided that such a momentous occasion as Sherlock apologizing deserved some form of acknowledgement. Gently he nosed the detective's cheek and then pushed his head against Sherlock's breast bone. Considering himself forgiven, the genius rose wearily and dragged his feet back to the living room. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him, palms pressed against her face in shock.

"Sherlock! The mess you've made!" She sounded put-out, but slightly awed at the same time. "I'll nip downstairs and grab a broom. Really, dear, did you even give a thought to poor old John? He'll shred his paws to bits on this mess!"

"I am well aware of that, Mrs. Hudson. If you could get on with the cleaning, I'm sure he would appreciate it." Sherlock flopped down on his back on the sofa.

A pillow slapped him in the face almost as soon as his eyes closed. Sputtering indignantly, Sherlock shoved if off and glared around as he rose, until his icy eyes met with John's scolding slate-blue ones. John snorted meaningfully at him, and shot a pointed look in the direction of the landlady who was just bustling her way back up the stairs. When Sherlock did not act, the dog opened his mouth threateningly, near the pillow which had fallen onto the floor. With a sigh, Sherlock slumped off the sofa, took the broom and dustpan from his elderly landlady, and began to clean with a pout twisting his mouth.

Smiling, Martha went back downstairs to make some tea and sandwiches for her boys. The way John had managed to make Sherlock go to work, with a simple glare, gave her more hope for the detective than she had ever had before. She had barely even had to push for John to start befriending the seemingly cold genius, and Sherlock was responding to that friendship even better than she anticipated. Martha had very high hopes indeed that together, both of their problems would be solved in due time.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Halfway between movements of a particularly macabre violin concerto, an idea hit Sherlock so hard his whole body jerked. Within seconds of its arrival, Sherlock was compounding more facts into a completely solid theorem. That chilling smirk stole over his face, and he scrambled around the coffee table for his mobile phone.

A grunt from behind him called his attention from his search, and he turned to find John holding the phone in gently clenched jaws. His smirk went from frightening to amused as he held out his hand, palm open, and John dropped the precious piece of technology into it. Flicking his fingers in thanks, he immediately began texting his brother:  **Get off your pompous behind and send me a pass for Baskerville -SH**

It was a full five minutes before Mycroft answered:  **If you are referring to a certain secret military base in Dartmoor, then my answer is a deep and resounding 'no' -MH**

Growling to himself, Sherlock flopped into his armchair and typed:  **Obviously. How many Baskervilles do you know of? - SH**

Another few minutes passed before:  **What part of the letters 'n' and 'o', put together, in that order, to make a single syllable word of negativity, did you misconstrue? - MH**

Sneering, Sherlock took a moment to sip from the tea mug John pushed onto the coffee table before answering:  **Sarcasm is not a pretty color on you. Stop being boring and send me a pass. Actually send me two passes. -SH**

It was an entire hour (which Sherlock spent trying to find out if a dog could, in fact, play poker) before his brother answered:  **Have you asked Lestrade if he is free to accompany you? I doubt he will enjoy being essentially kidnapped for your purposes. - MH**

The consulting detective threw down his two-pair of nines before answering:  **The second pass is for John. He is infinitely more useful than Lestrade, as well as approximately 27% smarter and 97% less talkative. - SH**

John spat a royal flush onto the table, which was just as disheartening as Mycroft's reply:  **He is Mrs. Hudson's pet, Sherlock, not your partner in crime. Even if it were a matter of national security, I would not give you, of all people, a pass into Baskerville. - MH**

Sherlock growled, anted up with four vanilla hobnobs, and dealt out another round before texting:  **Actually, it may be a matter of national security. I need to see the decoded files from Ms. Adler's phone to be completely certain. - SH**

After taking three cards, and giving John two, Sherlock read Mycroft's answer:  **I will email you the files in due time. The pass is still a 'no'. - MH**

He threw up his hands when John trumped his pair or sixes and pair of fours with a two-pair of aces. "This is sodding ridiculous," he grumbled, hiding his eyes behind his phone as he answered his brother:  **If I can prove my theory, will you send me the bloody pass? - SH**

A sheepish smile graced Sherlock's face as John parted his rather substantial pile of biscuits into two equal mounds, then used a ruler to nudge one pile towards the detective. John wagged his tail sedately when Sherlock snapped one up and shoved it into his mouth. Before he could send yet another text to his brother, the front door of the flat opened to reveal Mycroft, in all his three-piece-suited glory.

"What, exactly, is this theory of yours, brother?"

Sighing deeply, Sherlock turned his eyes back to John, "Would you mind putting the kettle back on? This might take a while."

With a single glance at Mycroft, John trotted into the kitchen, and both brothers could hear the distinct sound of an electric kettle being plugged in and flicked on. Mycroft stared at the kitchen door, the slightest wrinkle of confusion forming between his eyebrows. Sherlock hopped up from his spot on the couch and began to rummage around on the desk one-handed, sipping his own tea with a loud slurp.

"You are planning to answer me at some point, are you not?" The elder Holmes brother made his way over to one of the armchairs by the hearth, settling with his back to Sherlock.

"Since you are being particularly obstructive," Sherlock dropped a manila folder onto his brother's lap, "I thought you would enjoy a look at my findings."

Flipping open the folder, Mycroft dove into his brother's notes, pausing briefly to accept a perfectly prepared mug of Britain's Finest Earl Grey from John. He lifted an eyebrow in surprise when the dog curled up beneath Sherlock's feet. Turning his attention back to the file on his knees, Mycroft put his incredulity, as to the affinity Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's dog seemed to have developed for each other, on the backburner of his considerable intellect, and focused on the file before him.

Sherlock watched as his brother's expressive eyebrows climbed higher and higher and then came slamming down furiously. Smirking at the reaction, Sherlock snarked, "I believe we are in accord?"

Instead of answering, Mycroft pulled out his mobile and sighed, typing a swift message to his assistant. Frowning, he waited until he finished reading her answer before gathering up his umbrella and stalking to the door of the flat. He didn't even bother turning around when he simply said, "You leave on the morrow."

The genius waited until the main door of the house closed before looking down at John's inquisitive face and smirking. Reaching down, he tapped John gently on the nose and chuckled, "All he needs is the handlebar moustache. Honestly, who says things like that in this day and age?"

He chose to ignore John's rather pointed look, and launched himself up, rushing down the hall to start packing.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

The train ride into the country boasted some beautiful scenery, if one the pictures Sherlock had found online. According to the brochures the detective pilfered from a travel agency (Lestrade didn't have the heart to tell him they were free), Dartmoor boasted rolling hills and shadowy moors as far as the eye could see. To go along with that, there was also a beautifully twisted forest, which the natives had vaunted as the home of a terrifying urban legend - a hellhound of epic size and disturbing ferocity.

It was the kind of scenery and mystique that John would have loved to see flashing by out the train windows. Unfortunately, he was in a small, plastic pet carrier in the baggage car, strapped beneath Sherlock's and Lestrade's luggage. Needless to say (but it shall be said anyway), John was not a happy puppy. He was as far from happy as it was possible to get without being found naked, in a muddy sewer, while rabid, mutant rats attacked his ankles, with his drunken sister on the phone blathering about her most recent breakup.

Sherlock hadn't even had the decency to supply him with a magazine or something to keep him occupied. Rolling onto his back, just for a change in the monotony, John stared blankly at the back of the railcar door and snorted at himself. Next time he got it into his mind to attempt relieving Sherlock's boredom, he was going to remember this trip. Then again, if John felt this ridiculous with his own (comparatively meager) intellect flaying itself to pieces, he could only imagine how his friend felt when the genius's mind had nothing to do but turn on itself. John rolled back onto his stomach and leaned against the side of his momentary prison, huffing in amusement as he realized that literally changing his orientation had opened his mind to a new perspective. Who knew?

Booted feet tromped along the edge of the stack of baggage and paused right in front of John's carrier. He couldn't see the man's face, but the acid-washed jeans and motorcycle boots in front of his eyes told him that this person was not a railway employee, and thus, should not be in the car. Listening intently, John committed the man's one-sided phone conversation to memory.

"Should be arriving at the station in half an hour." The man's voice was a little rough, but it sounded highly familiar. "I'm placing them as we speak. They won't even notice they're there." A long pause in the stranger's speech was filled by the sound of two zippers unzipping, some cloth rustling, and then two zippers zipping again. "What's that? Yeah, it's here."

Dropping to one knee, the man stared down into John's cage, meeting the dog's eyes with a predatory stare. John's mouth opened and his tongue lolled out in shock at the face he devastatingly recognized. If he had possessed human vocal cords, John would have sworn worse than a drunken sailor dropping a hammer on his toe. Instead of growling, he remained silent and swallowed heavily.

"Don't look like much, you know. Seems like just a regular dog to me. An ugly one, granted, but still pretty ordinary." Dark brown eyes, full of barely hidden malice, narrowed as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. "I don't know. It's not growling or anything. Maybe they gave it a sedative so it would travel better." His head tilted when John did not break their stare for an uncomfortable amount of time. "Okay, even I have to admit that the staring is a little creepy, but it still seems pretty harmless. If that video was anything to go by, though, maybe you're right."

Regaining his feet, one of the evil ghosts of John's past trudged away, presumably returning to his own seat on the train. God, what John would have given for the ability to pace out his frustration! What was that bloody psycho doing here, of all places? Shouldn't he have been in prison?

As the railcar shrieked with the sound of its brakes being applied, John was thrown out of his thoughts as his cage slid a foot along the floor. Growling unhappily, John consoled his wounded pride, and tumultuous thoughts, with the fact that Sherlock and Lestrade were probably at each other's throats right now. At least that would be more amusing than pondering just what, exactly, was wrong with this world, which had trapped a good man like him in the body of a dog, and allowed a dastardly beast like Sebastian Moran to roam free.

It took a whole thirty minutes for the consulting detective and his tag-along DI to collect their bags, and by then John was clawing at the last dregs of his sanity. Lestrade insisted on keeping the dog cooped up in his carrier until they reached the hotel. Sherlock actually looked briefly scandalized before whipping open the cage and hefting John into his arms with a disgusted huff. The detective insisted on carrying John all the way to their rental humvee on the grounds that Lestrade was a meanie. And yes, he actually used the word 'meanie'.

As soon as the bags were loaded, John leaped up into the boot and started sniffing and pawing at them. He growled at the zippers, trying to pull them open with his front teeth. This time it was Lestrade who grasped him and lifted, pulling him away from the bags with a loud grunt, and placing him on the ground

"Lord above," the DI grumbled, checking if any damage had been done to their luggage.

"Really, John, can we not wait until we arrive at the hotel for you to do your security search?" Sherlock tutted, crossing his arms unhappily.

"Security search?" Lestrade looked back and forth between John and Sherlock, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Obviously." The consulting detective waved a hand at the boot, "Someone must have fussed with our bags when they were in the railcar. As John was in his carrier beneath our luggage, he probably saw and heard something distressing enough to cause him to search our bags at the first opportunity presented to him. It cannot be a bomb, or John would have alerted us immediately. It's probably a surveillance device."

"What? Like a bug or something?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock shrugged and boosted John into the rear seat of the military vehicle. "Stop dawdling, Lestrade. We finally have something fun to do, why are you dragging your feet?"

They rode in relative silence, which was broken only when Lestrade glanced behind Sherlock and burst out laughing. Unable to see what was so funny, Sherlock tried twisting himself every which way in the seat to see behind him without loosing sight of the road in front of him. He couldn't see anything in the rear view mirror, and the DI was laughing so hard tears were streaming from his eyes and no sound was able to escape his throat, so the man couldn't even explain himself. It wasn't until Sherlock managed to figure out the controls to manipulate the side view mirror that he finally caught on.

John had his little head stuck out the window, his eyes bright and nose twitching at the new smells in the air. His ears were pulled wide open with the wind of their passage, making him look like some kind of surrealist bat. It didn't help that his jaws were wide open and his tongue flailed out the side of his mouth like a wriggling worm.

Slowing the car to a stop, Sherlock bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. Lestrade, frightened that the man was offended or something, sobered himself as he watched the genius's shoulders begin to tremble mightily. The DI couldn't tell if Sherlock was enraged or what, and cast a distinctly uncomfortable look back towards the rear seat and out the front window. Lestrade wondered, briefly, if he would be able to make his escape before the consulting detective recovered.

When Sherlock finally sat up straight again, face a blank mask as he drew a deep breath into his nose, he gripped the steering wheel in a white knuckled grip. John's head slowly appeared, sliding up in between the two front seats, both his little ears thrown inside out over the back of his head. The dog opened his mouth, long pink tongue lolling out as he panted happily, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wriggled. Lestrade watched in horror as Sherlock slowly turned his head and looked at John, his ice grey eyes taking in the dog's ridiculous state.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had been acquainted with Sherlock Holmes for almost 6 years, and he had never seen anything like what he was witnessing at that moment. Sherlock Holmes, who was always elegant and stately (when he wasn't being an enormous, arrogant prat), had just snorted like a sixty-pound hog in a mud pit, before bursting into gales of rich, musical laughter. It was either a miracle, or a sign of the coming apocalypse, and Lestrade had to pinch his thigh rather painfully in order to keep from crossing himself and praying very loudly. He had only enough presence of mind to snap a rather good photo of John with Sherlock behind him, the genius nearly in tears, and send it with a short text message. Then, as John shook himself thoroughly to correct the lay of his ears, Lestrade also burst into his own incredulous laughter.

_(Somewhere in London, the man who essentially is the British Government, feels his phone buzz in his breast pocket. Sighing silently, he takes out the annoyance with one hand and lifts his tumbler of well-aged brandy to his lips. He swishes the alcohol around in his mouth as he reads:_ _**Think S condition imprving. Unknwn if should b happy or terrified - GL** _ _. The picture that follows that statement nearly gets Mycroft thrown out of the club, as the sight of it makes him spit said brandy approximately two feet. It occurs to him that perhaps, next time, he shouldn't look at picture messages from Greg Lestrade while drinking alcohol so close to a fireplace.)_

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

When they finally arrived at the little pet-friendly inn where they had a pair of single rooms reserved, John was immediately all business. He stood rigid sentinel over the bags while Lestrade checked them in, scanning the room and passersby with quick jerks of his head. Sherlock observed his dog with his brow set quizzically, surprised at the almost militaristic stance John maintained. Instead of questioning it, the detective kept silent, wondering just what had the little animal so keyed up.

After making their way up the stairs, Lestrade and Sherlock began to enter their separate rooms, only to find themselves hindered by John dancing around their legs in pushy circles. Sherlock frowned before nodding sharply, "Of course. John wants to take a look into our bags. He obviously thinks whatever whoever put in there is important."

With a resigned sigh, Lestrade dropped his bag to the floor and unzipped it. John immediately set about nosing his way through every part of the contents before growling softly and lifting his head up. Very carefully, John spat a small black button, no bigger than a thumbnail, onto the floor. Both Sherlock's and Lestrade's eyes widened, and Sherlock opened his own bag with eager swiftness. After a short search, John spat out another identical button beside the first.

Dropping to all fours, Sherlock surveyed the buttons from every angle before jumping to his feet and crushing them beneath the sole of his shoe. Lestrade sighed again, and then groaned exasperatedly as Sherlock pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and slipped the pieces inside. Smirking, Sherlock gave a pat to John's head, then zipped his bag back up.

Unwilling to waste any more time than it took for them to chuck their luggage into their respective rooms, Sherlock and Lestrade trudged back down to the car, John trotting at their heels. It was only a short ride to Baskerville, and Sherlock grudgingly allowed Lestrade to drive, stating he wanted to take the measure of their surroundings. Greg didn't argue, and set off at a leisurely pace, ignoring the sound of John snorting out the window as he drove.

Baskerville was a stunning sight, the grounds around it crawling with imposing fences topped with barbed wire and spikes, and (to Sherlock's delight) a large, cordoned-off minefield. Everything from the fortress-like buildings to the men in camouflage uniforms wandering about seemingly aimlessly proclaimed it a military base above all else. Sherlock was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement as they handed over their passes at the gate.

Once safely parked, John was easily kitted up in his harness and leashed, bright new tags glittering at his chest. One of the military K9s passed by and gave him a cursory sniff, which might have turned into something more if John hadn't given the animal a particularly pointed glare. The German Shepherd immediately tucked tail and pressed up against its handler's leg, ears flat against its head. Sherlock hid a smile by pretending to cough into his hand.

A rather flustered looking corporal trotted up and saluted sharply. "Afternoon, Sir. If you'll follow me, please."

They were lead into the belly of the beast, passed hundreds of cages and ranks of scientists carefully dripping chemicals into other chemicals. If Sherlock hadn't been wearing a scarf, he probably would have chafed his neck the way he kept swiveling his head around. Lestrade kept his eyes forward, glancing down occasionally to watch John, keeping an eye on the dog's disposition. If anything would give the DI a heads-up about danger, it would be John.

Arriving at a computer terminal, Sherlock immediately sat down and began to type furiously, his fingers blurring over the keyboard. Both Lestrade and the corporal tried to deter him, but he hissed and flailed dismissively at them. The corporal snatched one of Sherlock's thin wrists and tried to yank him away, only to end up on his back with a rather pissed off John sitting on his stomach, snarling viciously in his face. Sherlock simply patted John on the head and dove back into the mire of military, scientific, and technical jargon that was Baskerville's computer system.

Clicking around on the screen, Sherlock stumbled upon a hidden file, which popped up a username and password entry form. Grinning wickedly, he typed in the late Ms. Adler's final message into the appropriate fields. Sherlock tapped on the 'enter' key with a flourish, a triumphant look on his face. That look was quickly replaced by a purse-lipped frown at the information displayed on the screen.

Sherlock and Lestrade both cursed quietly in tandem. According to the spreadsheets of the file, the person who ran one of the scientific testing areas of the facility, was linked to the person Irene Adler had been smuggling opium for. The drugs were being used to fund a number of experiments, which were carefully documented with so many abbreviations it looked like so much professional gobbledygook. It wasn't until Sherlock located another hidden file, of precisely labeled video files, within that file that everything fell into place in the genius's mind.

There was a modicum of sadness, grief, and fear in the detective's eyes as Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and stated, "Genetic manipulation. They're trying to create a human-animal hybrid to use as a super soldier."

"Why the bloody hell would they want to do that?"

"They were inspired," Sherlock's voice lowered to a pained whisper, "by something they saw."

He pulled up a video play list, and each small recording of video footage, from hi-definition security camera to CCTV footage, had one thing in common - a little golden-furred, lion-like dog, with a black and white speckled shoulder. Lestrade watched in amazement as a parade of tiny images of John performing actions unheard of in any other canine flashed across the monitor. Seeing the disturbed look in Sherlock's eyes, and the thin, white-lipped line of the detective's mouth, reflected in the screen, Lestrade reached out a hand and tightly gripped the man's shoulder.

The final document in the file had a single line of text -  **Come along and play with me, Pet, so I can show you a true Master. - M**


	9. The Great Hound (Part 1)

While Sherlock ordered a copy of the hidden file from the reluctant corporal, Lestrade watched the video play list over the detective's shoulder. Some of the videos were from long before Sherlock's landlady had acquired the furry beast. Greg had seen some rather fabulous video evidence of canine intelligence (please read as: 'wasted time on YouTube') during some of his longer bouts with insomnia, but the frankly astounding array of ingenuity and compassion displayed by Sherlock's golden-furred companion left him reeling.

One video showed John snatching blankets out of a storage facility, which he passed on to squalid street children down the block from the building. Then there was John snatching fruits and vegetables from market stalls to feed some homeless men and women begging for change in the London Underground. Another piece showed John, looking faintly sooty, herding small children out of a smoking orphanage.

"Beast's a bloody saint," Lestrade cursed softly, earning a reproving glare from the agitated detective. Movement on the monitor called the DI's attention back to the screen, and suddenly he grunted, "Oi! Play that last one again!"

Grumbling, Sherlock obliged, and frowned at the screen as little John rounded a street corner and took a running leap onto the back of a man struggling with someone else. When the streetlight revealed her as a rather disheveled streetwalker, both Sherlock and Greg leaned a little more forward towards the screen. The woman disappeared around a corner, and reappeared after a minute with a police officer in tow. Holmes cursed creatively as the officer pulled the man into the light of a street lamp.

"Is that the Piccadilly Penetrator?" Lestrade breathed unbelievingly.

"Really, Lestrade? I thought we were of like minds in regards to media nicknames for serial killers?" Despite his groan of protest, Sherlock still leaned forward and squinted at the paused image of the bleeding man. "Yes, that's him. I always wondered how dim officer Bricen managed to make that lucky catch."

"I'm with you there, mate." Greg pointed to another file, "Look at this one! I think this is when we found that mugger who was impersonating an officer."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock was beginning to sound just a tad bit impressed, and his left hand drifted down to scratch John behind the ears. "It seems John has been helping me catch criminals even before we were introduced."

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Talk to and about John like he's one of us?"

Holmes glanced over his shoulder, a confused crease marring his brow. "I would appreciate you speaking sense, Lestrade."

Sighing in exasperation, Greg just barely kept himself from gripping the bridge of his nose as a headache began to form. "You talk to him like he's a person."

"Would you rather I spoke to him as if he were a baby," the detective's words dripped with scorn, "like some people are wont to do?"

"You could speak to him like he was a dog. Since, you know, that's what he is?"

Sherlock sniffed in disdain, "I refuse to insult John's intelligence by speaking to him as if he were commonplace. This discussion is over."

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue further, but the corporal reappeared suddenly with the disc Sherlock requested. The detective snatched it up and stood, turning up the collar of his coat with a distinct air of aloofness. Setting off for the exit, neither Lestrade nor he realized John was no longer beside them until they were inside the closed doors of the lift. Sherlock's agitation immediately rose to an intolerable level, and he practically snarled at the corporal until the lift began heading back to the floor they had previously vacated.

"Where could he have gone?" Greg peered around at the array of tables, trying to catch a glimpse of golden fur against the white linoleum. "I thought you had him on a leash?"

Grumbling in lieu of an answer, Sherlock stalked off towards the table they had walked away from, searching around in the immediate area for clues. Glancing to the left and right, he noticed an open duct cover and dropped to all fours, peering down the metal tunnel. Greg snagged at the detective's ankle, but he wasn't fast enough to stop the man from squeezing into the confined space.

"If you get stuck, Sherlock, I'm not coming in after you!"

An echo bounced back along the tunnel, "You wouldn't fit anyway!"

"God help me," Lestrade groaned, pulling out his mobile to send a message to Mycroft.

Another echo, slightly fainter than the last, floated up from the duct, "Mycroft wouldn't fit through the tent flap of a circus big top!"

Greg groaned again, decided not to give that comment the dignity of a snarky comeback, and continued texting.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

John wriggled out of the duct and into muted sunshine, snorting heavily to get the dust out of his nose. He hadn't meant to disappear on Sherlock and Greg like that, but when he'd caught a whiff of scent which he recognized as that of Sebastian Moran, he steeled himself against sentiment and followed the trail. Yes, Sherlock and Lestrade were both acclimatized to violence, and yes they both had been trained as boxers, but those skills would be next to useless against a fully trained military sniper like Moran. At least John had teeth and claws on his side, whereas the detective and the inspector would have only Greg's .9ml and their wits. No, John would not expose them to the likes of Moran.

Shaking himself all over, John surveyed the forest spread out before him, with its twisted trees and muddy ground, and shivered inwardly at the thought of the sniper taking up a blind within it. He was going to have to be extremely careful in his wanderings, and keep his wits about him. Silently, he ghosted into the forest, nose twitching as he caught wafts of different scents: squirrels, rabbits, dogs, ah…Moran!

Loping off, Moran's particular odor strong in his nostrils, John slithered through underbrush and leaped over the occasional stream. The deeper he went into the woods, the stronger the trail of scent became. It wasn't until he caught sight of a dirty wooden sign that he paused in shock. It read: 'Danger - Minefield ahead - 50m'.

Cursing viciously in his mind, John paced back and forth before the sign, debating whether or not to continue on. His options, as he saw them, were extremely limited: follow the trail and possibly be shot or end up and experiment, accidentally step on a mine and blow up, or return to the base and hope Sherlock or Lestrade noticed he was missing. None of those options were particularly appealing, especially the 'get blown up' one, so John simply heaved a loud, canine sigh and turned tail, following his own scent back to the grating.

A twig snapped somewhere behind him, and John whirled around instantly, his hackles rising and his ruff puffing out. Cautiously, he insinuated himself into a sprawling rhododendron bush, dropping his body low to the ground and tensing to spring out if necessary. Fighting off a quiver of anticipation, John forced his body to remain absolutely still. Twitching his nose for a bit of scent, and unable to find any, John cursed the fact that something had gotten downwind of him without his noticing.

When Sherlock blundered around the gnarled trunk of a picturesque oak, John cursed inwardly for a completely different reason. The tall detective shook out his coat petulantly, frowning at a small stick that had managed to find its way into a button hole and pulling it out. A wisp of fog drifted by, obscuring John's vision briefly, and when it cleared, Sherlock was shaking his head in a slightly disoriented fashion. Nose twitching, John caught a chemical odor that he hadn't noticed before, and immediately forced it back out of his nostrils with a loud snort.

Sherlock jumped, shaking his head this way and that in what appeared to be terror, which made next to no sense in John's mind. While John wouldn't necessarily call Sherlock fearless, the genius possessed a highly logical mind, which was usually able to rationalize fright and push it into the background. Seeing the man before him nearly shaking, John immediately slithered back out of his hiding spot and carefully approached, wagging his tail in a friendly way. To his surprise, the genius gave him a relieved smile before bending down to stroke his ears.

"Here you are, John." The detective got down on one knee, peering into John's face. "On the trail of something interesting, are you? Is it our luggage bugger, by any chance?"

The small clearing was beginning to fill with fog, and some harsh chemical odor stung John's sensitive nostrils. When he sneezed wildly, Sherlock began to chuckle, the barest tinge of something bordering on panic making John take an even closer look at the detective. A patch of fog wafted past Sherlock's face, and John watched the genius's pupils dilate and contract rapidly. John snorted rudely as the chemical smell assailed his nostrils again.

It was the fog. It had to be. Something in the fog was affecting Sherlock's brilliant mind, and John would be damned if he let it continue any longer than necessary. Protector mode engaged, John nudged and pushed at the detective until he shakily regained his feet and from there it was simply a matter of tugging on the hem of that blasted coat to get the man moving. They had to get out of there as soon as possible.

Reluctant to give up the perceived chase, Sherlock stumbled along as John tugged, mumbling, "We can't give up now, John. The game is on, remember?" A gust of wind shook the canopy above them, and Sherlock shivered, his eyes pin wheeling to try and find what had moved them. "Or we could go back. Going back is acceptable."

John longed to console the detective that everything was all right, that something in the fog was drugging him, but without the use of words it was impossible. Settling for pressing against the genius's knee and nuzzling one of the man's large hands, John did his best to convey a sense of calm reassurance. When the tension in the detective's shoulder's slackened a bit, John continued to herd him along, keeping one careful eye on the terrain.

Of course, it only took John being distracted for one second, when a rabbit darted beneath his nose, for Sherlock to trip over a tree root. Just as the man sprawled face-first across the ground, John caught the sound of a powerful bullet sinking into a nearby tree, and seconds later the echo of the gun rapport. Sherlock wobbled up on his hands and knees, but John leaped against him, pushing him down into a fetal position. Using his body as a shield, John surveyed the silence forest with his piercing eyes. When the detective tried to rise, John growled and pressed his considerable weight down onto Sherlock's body to keep the man still.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in a hoarse whisper, ducking his head as another bullet dug into the ground scant centimeters from his hand. He pulled his long limbs even closer beneath John's warm, furry body. "Why is there a sniper in the woods? You'd think the minefield would be a more formidable deterrent."

Grunting darkly, John scanned the immediate area for better cover, even though he knew there wasn't any. Another bullet tossed soil from the ground uncomfortably close to John's rear paw, and yet another thudded home in the tree behind them. Using the sound of each following rapport, John calculated the distance of the sniper's nest as somewhere towards the east of them. It was much too far for John to run, in any case, even if there was better cover for Sherlock, and there was no way short of death that he would expose the detective to the rifle's sight.

An uncomfortable amount of time passed, and then another bullet blasted part of the root Sherlock had tripped over into pulp. Now the sniper was much closer, probably somewhere near the entrance to the mine field. If they made a run for the rhododendron bush John had been hiding in, which wasn't really that far, they stood a chance of having a bit of cover. The problem was, Sherlock was so tall, that even if he crouched he might as well have been wearing a neon bulls-eye taped to his head. They would have to do it the slow, hard way then.

Nudging the man beneath him with a paw, John tried to push the detective backwards without revealing anything vital. It only took Sherlock half a minute longer than normal to understand, and he wriggled backwards awkwardly on his side. Though slow, they still made good progress, and not one of the bullets struck either of them. That thought disconcerted John greatly. If Moran was indeed doing the shooting, then either he was woefully out of practice or he wasn't shooting to kill. Another bullet pierced the ground very near to Sherlock's head and John revised his theory - Moran wasn't shooting to kill John, but he was definitely trying to shoot the detective.

With a powerful thrust of his hind legs, John rolled Sherlock under the bush, still glaring around at the trees. Moran was the kind of sniper that enjoyed using the high-ground, from what John remembered, and there were plenty of big old trees around where the old devil could have set up a blind. A bullet blasted apart a bloom that dangled very near John's face, and buried itself in the dirt, causing a hissing plume of fog to gout from the ground. Sherlock whimpered as the drugged moisture clouded the area, and John expelled the gaseous chemicals from his own nose with a few hard snorts.

Refusing to pass up such a good opportunity, John slunk through the fog, holding his breath, and aiming towards the most likely place Moran had set up shop. More bullets sporadically fired into the cloud billowing from the ground, which John chose to ignore for the moment. Sherlock was safe beneath the bush, provided Moran didn't decide to waste bullets picking apart the plant leaf by leaf. Putting the detective into the back of his mind for the time being, John put his nose to the ground and went to work.

It wasn't until he heard the soft sound of a gruff male voice cursing above him that John realized he'd found the right tree. Diving beneath the mangled roots of a nearby tree, John lay in wait as Moran clumsily climbed down out of his hiding spot and planted his heavy boots on the muddy ground. Stifling back a snarl of fury, John listened closely as Moran put a hand to his ear.

"Sorry, I lost them for a moment." The man's voice was slightly muffled by the breathing apparatus around his mouth. John assumed it was to filter out the fog. "Well it's not like there's a map showing all the places those stupid pipes are near the surface!" It seemed Moran was rolling his eyes, judging by the set of his head. "Stop worrying. There's only one safe trail, and that skinny git is reeling from the fog. I'll just bike back over to the other blind."

John backed up slightly when Moran approached his hiding spot, and caught a glint of light off green metal. A mountain bike was leaning against the other side of the roots beneath which John had hidden himself. Smirking in his mind, John quietly resituated himself, preparing to leap out on the sniper as soon as the bike was removed.

Unfortunately, John had not anticipated Sherlock courageously reappearing like some kind of ridiculously uncoordinated vigilante. The detective barreled through a honeysuckle bush with all the finesse of a retarded chimp, and landed heavily on Moran, knocking the wind out of them both, whilst (and at the same time) nearly braining his magnificent head on a large rock. Sparing a moment of recalculating his plan of attack to fervently wish he had a palm with which to slap himself in the forehead, John bit into one of the bike's tires until air escaped noisily from the rubber.

Moran recovered quickly, kicking the detective off and jumping up, one hand reaching for the gun visible in the waistband at the small of his back. Foregoing another mouthful of rubber, John snarled furiously and launched himself against the sniper's exposed back. Sinking his teeth into the sniper's arm, John growled around the iron tang of blood and shook the arm in his jaws like a cat shaking a recalcitrant mouse. Screaming in pain, Moran scrambled in the dirt for the nearest rock and used it to smack the dog in the nose before it ripped his muscles to shreds.

Sherlock rolled himself to his feet, trying to steady his addled mind by clinging to the nearby bike and using it like a crutch to remain upright. Unable to do more than sputter indignantly when Moran hit John in the nose with a rock, the detective watched as man and beast squared off, circling each other with ferocious intensity. The bike slid along the ground, and Sherlock flailed his arms to keep from falling. John used Moran's distracted glance as an opportunity to pounce heavily against the sniper's chest, which caused them to slide down a small slope of very viscous mud. Cursing his momentary inelegance, Sherlock lurched after them.

A wide field of grass spread out from the bottom of the incline, and Sherlock peered down from his vantage point to try and locate his friend and the sniper. Using a nearby tree as a prop, the detective took a few deep breaths of clear, crisp oxygen. He could feel the difference between the humid fog-filled air and that of the open moor, and that was when he realized that something had been drugging his mind without his consent. But just a few gulps of clean air wouldn't negate the drug already sweeping through his system, leaving him feeling floaty, weak, and muddled. He caught a glimpse of John's golden fur blazing in the sunlight, and wobbled down towards the moving figures.

The sniper and John were once again squared off, not far from a ditch that had been carved by a fast moving stream. Crimson-tinged saliva dripped from John's powerful fangs, and his sedate blue eyes had turned the hard color of cobalt steel. Rage was evident in every muzzle-contorting spasm of John's vicious snarls, and Sherlock was surprised at the depth of it. John was usually so sedate, his anger dissipating as soon as a threat was effectively neutralized. This was not anger, or even the natural fight/flight response possessed by all things with a hindbrain; pure hatred was all that shown through John's sharp eyes, and its intensity was truly frightening.

A knife glittered in the unmarred right arm of the sniper, who brandished it with a familiar flourish that meant he knew how to use it. Sherlock noted the awkward way the blade was brandished, and realized that John had mauled the sniper's dominant hand - point to John. However, the man was still a formidable opponent, still dangerous, and John was woefully under armored to contend with a metal weapon.

Heedless of his mortality, John lashed in at the sniper's ankles, scoring a tearing bite on the man's shin. As the knife flashed down, John darted between the man's legs, escaping what might have proved a fatal blow. Sherlock watched woozily, losing focus momentarily as John slipped in to score another bite. Blinking his eyes, afraid to miss a moment of the action that might cost his friend his life, the detective stared dumbfounded at what the drug had made his eyes see.

Instead of a sniper dressed all in black, Sherlock saw a monstrous, slobbering shadow. Silver light glinted on the claws of its single working arm, and it lurched wildly to one side as it was shoved off balance. Those claws slashed out again in a wide arc, searching for a target that was moving too fast for it to compensate. It was only when the monster's attacker paused to choose a new line of attack that Sherlock saw what the drug had morphed John into.

Golden-haired and dressed in desert camouflage, a sturdily built man with tanned skin crouched in the dirt before the monster. His charming, mobile face showed an expression of fierce calculation. While the monster took a moment to groan in pain and tourniquet its bleeding arm, the man locked his determined eyes on Sherlock's. The detective's lungs emptied with a might release of carbon dioxide as he recognized the intelligent blue gaze of John the dog in the man before him.

As the fight resumed, Sherlock's vision began to flicker back and forth between the drug-induced hallucination and reality until they seemed almost superimposed on one another. John-the-man would rush at the sniper, which would morph into the monster swiping a huge claw at John-the-dog, and vice versa, until Sherlock was, frankly, quite a bit nauseous. It was a relentless dance of clash and release, until, finally, John-the-man crashed into the monster's chest, pinning it against the ground very near the edge of the stream ditch. Time seemed to pause heavily, and John-the-dog leaped out into the air above the stream, just as the sniper twitched to his side.

The explosion that followed was so powerful Sherlock was knocked flat on his back with the shockwave of it. As flaming debris fell from the sky like macabre rain, the detective dashed clumsily to the edge of the ditch, where he had last seen John attempting to fly without wings. There, lying on his side in the mud, was the little golden dog, completely still beside the burbling water. Ignoring his expensive clothes, Sherlock landed heavily on the bank below, and dragged the bedraggled canine into his thin arms.


	10. The Great Hound (Part 2)

It turned out, carrying a dog that weighed as much as a full-grown man, for more than half a mile while your body was still trying to expel a hallucinogenic drug, was the limit of Sherlock's not-inconsiderable strength. Thankfully, Lestrade's not nearly as stupid as Sherlock has always concluded. After the idiot consulting detective finally stopped moving, and Mycroft has relayed the man's GPS coordinates, the Inspector had a soldier drive him and a medic straight to where Sherlock lay against a tree cradling John.

Inside an hour, they were back at Baskerville in a recovery room in the medical bay, with Sherlock once again in hospital-grade attire, and John laid out carefully beside him, wrapped in a blanket. Lestrade dragged his hands wearily down his face and sank into a chair beside the slightly smug detective. Silence reigned for all of four seconds.

"John killed a sniper with a landmine." The words burst out of Sherlock's mouth, as if his pride could not be contained.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, Sherlock." Sighing deeply, Lestrade let a smirk slowly appear on his face. "Now we just have to find out who hired the sniper."

"The same person who has been keeping tabs on John, obviously. If Mycroft's cleaners can find enough of the sniper's phone, we could trace the last call he made."

"Unfortunately," Mycroft's voice preceeded him into the room, dripping with disdain, "we were unable to do that. However, according to dental records, we did manage to identify what was left of him."

The elder Holmes calmly approached the bedside of his younger brother, holding out a manila folder. Sherlock snatched it up with relish and began to flip through the contents. It was a complete personnel file, from the Army no less, and included quite a few pictures as well as a psychological profile.

"It's definitely him," the consulting detective confirmed in a soft mumble. He split his attention between the photographs and a transcript of some court martial procedeings. "Perhaps one of these will show our mystery employeer."

While Sherlock continued to peruse the file, Mycroft bent himself slightly until he and the little dog could look eye to eye. Placing a heavy hand on the small, golden head, Mycroft murmured, "Thank you, John, for my brother's life."

John answered with a weary wag of the tail, and a small huff of sound. Both of them started as Sherlock suddenly dropped the file in his lap, spilling papers, with a single photograph held in his hands. Mycroft stepped out of the way as Lestrade scrambled around on the floor to pick up the fallen sheets. Leaning over, Mycroft peered around at the photo Sherlock was studying so closely.

In the photo, the sniper, one Sebastian Moran, was visibly snarling while being held back by two large infantrymen in desert camoflauge. Before them stood a shorter, blonde man in matching uniform with a red-cross armband, glaring side-on at Moran, and cradling a small Afghani boy in his arms. Sherlock traced his fingers tentatively over the blonde medic, and his brow furrowed in thought.

"Something wrong, brother?"

Slowly, Sherlock lowered the photo, and allowed his eyes to settle on the small dog beside him. "No. Nothing is wrong. I'm taking the file home with me."

"Very well. I will arrange your return trip for you and the Inspector." With a final tap of his umbrella, Mycroft sauntered from the room.

"Er, thanks," Lestrade's gratitude followed the government official out the door. "I think."

Without looking up, Sherlock commanded, "Lestrade, why don't you make sure Mycroft remembers to have our things collected from the inn. I'd like to sleep again."

"Sure, Sherlock." With a pat to the dog's head, the Inspector walked out of the room.

Finally alone again, Sherlock turned the picture in his hands until the side with Moran was visible to John. The small dog's eyes turned very dark and his lips lifted in a silent snarl. Slowly, Sherlock uncovered the other side of the photograph. Immediately, John's mouth parted and his eyes widened in shock.

To the detective's surprise, there were words penned on the back of the picture: Exhibit 3 - Cptn John H Watson MD RAMC holds Afghani boy beaten near to death by Srgt Sebastian Moran Sniper 5NUF, who is being held back from attacking Dr Watson by Srgt Brian Johnson MD RAMC and Crpl Bill Murray RN RAMC.

Images flashed through Sherlock's mind - the irremovable collar around John's neck, the speckled pattern of John's back legs and the wounded shoulder, the illusion of a blonde-haired man fighting a monster. Slowly but surely the facts fell into place, and a relatively cohesive story formed. He still needed more data to be abolutely sure, but for now he was content with his conclusion.

"You and I are both cursed, then, aren't we Captain Watson? Or should I call you Doctor?"

John lifted his head up, eyes wide and bright, and his tail thumped against Sherlock's shin as the detective spoke. He snorted at either title, and then simply laid his head atop the detective's thigh with a gusty sigh. His tail still waved at bit at the tip as he waited.

"John it is then," Sherlock smiled winningly, and reached out to stroke the soft fur of John's ruff. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "This time you're not riding in the baggage car."

The dog let out a pleased rumble, and his tail fluttered back and forth in great, slow sweeps. He closed his blue eyes contentedly, and Sherlock settled back against the pillows. The detective closed his eyes and focused on the warmth of the small body beside him, a soft smile smoothing out his face as he drifted into sleep.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Two days later, Mycroft carefully navigated the chaos of the living room of Sherlock's flat, trying to make his way to the only open chair without making the mess any worse. John was curled up in his leather armchair, with a small table in front of him holding a half-empty plate of vanilla hobnobs and an empty mug. The little dog gave a polite wag of his tail as Mycroft sank into his seat.

"Good afternoon, John. I trust Sherlock is about somewhere?"

John made a few disgruntled huffing sounds before letting out a short, sharp bark. It was followed by the sound of a loo flushing, and a moment later, Sherlock swanned into the room. Still dressed in his best dressing gown and pajamas, the consulting detective perched on the arm of John's chair with a flourish.

"What do you want, Mycroft. I'm very busy."

"Yes, I'm sure you are," Mycroft stated patronizingly. Ignoring the death-glare with which Sherlock answered that statement, the British government pulled a pristine manila folder from inside his jacket. "Information from Baskerville. We have traced the ISP address of the person who uploaded those videos into Baskerville's main frame to a small town in Germany."

Like a starving man snatching up a piece of bread, Sherlock pounced on the file. His eyes flew over the information typed out before him, and flashed over the photographs with laser-like focus. The photos, he notices, are actually dated from several months ago, and Sherlock's face contorted in a snarl.

"All this time," Sherlock's voice was soft, but menacing, "you've known all this time, haven't you Mycroft? Since the beginning! Then, when you found out about John, you came to look at Mrs Hudson's flat!"

Mycroft frowned as Sherlock flung the file onto the coffee table and paced about the flat, mumbling furiously to himself. "I have been aware, for some time, that someone has been tampering with the mainframe at Baskerville. I did not know that the same person was keeping tabs on John, nor was it clear, until recently, that Ms. Adler was using her drug money to fund said person's activities. To my detriment, yes, I did find out long ago that this same someone is the person who cursed you during the time you saved Mrs. Hudson from her husband. I maintain, however, that finding out about Mrs. Hudson's vacancy was a completely unrelated but fortuitous occurence."

Violently, Sherlock whirled on his brother, the loose tie of his dressing gown accidentally whipping John in the face. The little dog let out an undignified snort, which both brothers completely ignored in favor of glaring silently at one another. John made a few soft, grumbly noises then stretched out his neck for a drink to mollify his hurt pride. When he realized his mug was empty, he peered at his still-casted foreleg, then his empty mug, then the kitchen, and finally let out a huff of frustration before snatching the mug and struggling into a seated position.

At the creaking of John's chair, Sherlock turned his head and took in the sight before him. Foregoing continuing the staring contest with his elder sibling, Sherlock gently took the empty mug from John's strong jaws and made his way into the kitchen. While he filled the mug with water, he contemplated all the facts available to him, and was left only with the conclusion that he was still missing an important piece of information.

Stalking back into the room, he gently placed the full mug within John's reach. Without looking at his brother, he demanded, "I want every scrap of information you have on Sebastian Moran. Videos, files, photos, everything. I need to find out how Professor Moriarty found him."

Mycroft frowned, but to his credit did not argue. Sighing, the elder Holmes pulled his phone out of from within his suit jacket. As he typed to his assistant, he also made a mental note to approve her next raise, with interest.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

It was three months (and hundreds of mugs of tea) until Sherlock finally found a clear enough surveillence photo that showed Sebastian Moran in the presence of the person he knew as 'Professor Moriarty'. Not that he was particularly surprised, really. As the 'Professor' was quite powerful, it only made sense that, thanks to magic, it would be nigh unto impossible to catch a clear photograph.

Setting the photograph aside, he scooped up the mug of tea perched precariously on the corner of his open laptop. Tapping the trackpad, he started the next set of videos in his queue. Settling back, he listened to the beginning of the court martial proceedings as he sipped.

Something warm and heavy leaned against his thigh and, without looking down, Sherlock switched his mug to his left hand in order to give John a scratch on the back. The little dog gave a soft huff of contentment, and Sherlock smiled. Leaning forward, he angled the screen so John could better see the video unfold.

John made an odd, mumbling noise, and Sherlock looked more fully at his fuzzy companion. He was craning his neck, trying to see the picture that Sherlock had set aside moments ago. Reaching over, the detective held it at the proper angle, but nearly dropped it at John's sudden, vicious snarl.

The sight of Mrs. Baptiste, photographed with her arms entwined around Sebastian Moran in a back alley of a market in Afghanistan, was shocking. Had she been trailing him since his enlistment? How had he not known she was there?

At first, Sherlock though it was a reaction to Sebastian, but when he realized that the dog wasn't looking at the deceased sniper, but at the Professor. "Let me guess, Professor Moriarty is the same person who cursed you as well?"

Casting a confused look up at the detective, John waited until the man clarified who he was talking about. Sherlock tapped the woman in the picture, and John nodded, adding a soft, angry growl to accent his distaste. The detective chuckled in a rather disturbing way, and tossed the photo back onto the table.

They watched the video of Moran stating his innocence in silence, until Sherlock softly offered, "She told me I would never feel kindness or pleasure again, unless it was through her magic."

Unable to answer with his own story, John cautiously laid his head down onto the detective's thigh, letting his tail thump softly against the leather sofa. Sherlock looked down into the gentle blue eyes, and his sharp-angled face smoothed into a soft smile. Stroking his pale fingers through the soft golden fur, the detective switched video files before settling back again.

Since he had been glancing over at his tea mug trying to decide if he wanted a refill, Sherlock nearly wrenched his neck whipping his head up as his laptop speakers proclaimed, "I, Major George Stipple for the defense, and Major Stephen Maine for the Service, reporting an interview with Captain John H. Watson MD of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." This testimony is being recorded for future viewing, by our court stenographer Sergeant Major Thomas Wolford, as Dr Watson is unable to be spared from active duty. "

Sherlock shoved himself so far forward on the cushion, John fell off the sofa. He waved off the dog's perturbed noises with a flap of his hand, focusing all his attention on the recording. On the screen, two men in Army dress uniform sat side by side.

The one who was speaking was a man with brown hair who was so heavy-set and red-faced that he reminded Sherlock of a tomato stuffed with rice pilaf. The man had probably never seen action outside of an old movie, but he was obviously a competant lawyer. His voice was smooth and clear, for all he looked like he was choking to death from the heat, "This testimony is being recorded for future viewing, by our court stenographer Sergeant Major Thomas Wolford, as Dr Watson is unable to be spared from active duty. "

The second man had ink-black hair and a warrior's build, but the leathery, fake tan he had managed to cultivate made it clear he was not a fighting soldier. In a harsh, gravelly voice he spoke up, "I, Major Maine, would like it noted on the record that the reason Captain Watson is unable to be spared from active duty is because the unit, led by Sergeant Moran, which was to safely escort four of our six medical doctors back to the base, failed to carry out their orders."

The camera swung around to show a rather young, but handsome, young red-headed man in the same dress uniform, but without his cap on (probably removed to use the camera more easily). "I, Sergeant Major Thomas Wolford, so note the previous words of Major Maine."

Wolford's face disappeared, and the camera swung to reveal a weathered, tired young blonde man in desert fatigues and a white doctor's coat, with captain ensignia on his shoulders. The Sergeant Major's disembodied voice floated out, "State your name and rank for the record please, Sir."

"John H Watson MD, rank of Captain," the blonde's voice held a barely-there spark of frustration, but was otherwise as even and calm as a summer breeze. Sherlock shivered at that voice, and was unable to avoid glancing down at the dog beside him.

While Wolford's voice rambled through the swearing in, John was staring at the video of his human self with something akin to wistful shock. Sherlock snatched the dog up and deposited the heavy beast into his lap. Wrapping his long arms around John's warm neck and chest, the detective listened intently to the interview.

"Captain Watson," Major Maine began, "You were present, were you not, when Sergeant Moran returned with several wounded Afghani refugees but not our medical personnel?"

"They weren't all refugees," Captain Watson stated sharply.

"A yes or no will suffice, Doctor," Major Stipple bit back.

"Then no, I wasn't present, because from what I remember, Major," there was a dangerous hint of insubordination in John's angry voice, "Sergeant Moran returned with four Afghani soldiers, as well as a pair of Afghani women, and two young Afghani boys ages 10 and 8. Do you count enemy soldiers, who were still armed, by the way, as 'refugees' Majors?"

Judging by the look on both Majors' faces, they were appalled and ashamed at such an accusation. Major Stipple was the first to regain his voice, "You are out of order, Doctor."

The way Captain Watson squared his shoulders was echoed in the way the dog in Sherlock's arms puffed up his ruff in indignance. Sherlock rested his cheek against John's head and glided a hand over the furry back soothingly. John grumbled softly as his human voice, tight with controlled rage, continued after an affronted pause.

"What's out of order, gentlemen, is the fact that I have to sit through this bloody interview at all. I know for a fact that Sergeant Major Wolford already translated the helmet-camera recordings from every member of Moran's unit. You have video evidence of the whole travesty, and you're wasting time here, dithering about as if that man deserves nothing more than a slap on the wrist."

Captain Watson got to his feet, and even though he was at least an inch shorter than both Majors, his presence alone was intimidating. "I've had enough of you JAG gits insinuating that I'm the one at fault for Moran slaughtering my co-workers. I'm not even an officer in his unit for chrissakes! I'd never even met the man before, and plenty of people, including you, Major Stipple, have testified to that! My testimony shouldn't even be necessary, since I only got called out to help bring the boy inside!"

"Well, Sergeant Moran did also threaten you, did he not?" Major Maine asked contritely.

"Yes, and? I have enemy soldiers quarantined in the medical unit who do that on a daily basis! I don't get called in to testify for their drumhead trials."

Stipple made an awkward noise and then asked in a slightly strained voice, "Let's just skip on to the medical reports about the boys' conditions, shall we?"

Outside the tent, someone began shouting for a surgeon, and Sherlock huffed out a laugh as the human John on the screen growled through his teeth. Captain Watson strode out of the room in perfect four-four time, tossing over his shoulder, "I'll be back to give you the medical information as soon as I'm done performing my duty, Majors."

As the Sergeant Major turned off the camera, Sherlock hugged the dog in his arms tightly, a smug smile on his face. John looked up into the detective's face and let his tongue loll out jovially. "You know John," Sherlock said fondly, "I always thought of you as quite the good little soldier. Who knew you had such an insubordinate backbone? A spitfire in any form, hm?"

John snorted and stole away his tea mug.


	11. A Beast Shall Fall...

Standing on a cliff-face, staring down at the torrent of water pouring over the edge, a pale man with a shock of dark hair takes a deep breath and moves his seafoam eyes back to the horizon. A beautiful woman, equally as tall and dark as he, slides her hands up and over the man's proud shoulders, bringing her mouth close to his ear. With her supple mouth twisting into a smug smile, she purrs to him, "We shall watch the world burn at our feet, you and I."

He answers, in a voice dark and toneless, "Not this time."

"Foolish boy," her voice is both fierce and possessive, "I own you."

His mouth twists in a mockery of a grin, "Such a philosophical notion, ownership."

Chuckling wickedly, she purrs again, "Oh yes, and philosophy is lost on a scientist like you. However, once you finally succumb to the pleasure my magic can bring, you will forget such notions of logic and reasoning in favor of the feelings I shall awaken in you."

"Your magic is nothing but an illusion." Reaching up, he takes hold of her both her thin wrists in one large hand. "I have studied it all my life, and I have finally figured out, in my scientific way, the two things which you cannot manipulate to your will."

Her nails bite into his flesh, even beneath his woolen coat, sinking into his shoulders until it is as if she has become a part of him. "And what is that, my fair one?"

"Iron," he smiles as he snaps the metal cuffs around her wrists, "and gravity."

Tightening his hold on her, he tips his body forwards until it begins to plummet down, down, down over the rushing water and jagged rocks of the falls. Closing his eyes against the wind, he turns his mind back to the last night he shared with his best friend.

**_One week ago_ **

It had taken Sherlock nearly a month to work through all the evidence of the Moran trial, which culminated in a dishonorable discharge and a 30-year prison sentence. He hadn't needed that much time to memorize everything, but he couldn't help how long he spent repeatedly watching and studying every moment that Dr John H Watson appeared on his laptop screen. It was fascinating to him, especially whenever he managed to match up the doctor's human body language with the movements of his canine roommate.

Speaking of John, the small dog was currently limping about the flat, tidying up as he grumbled in discontentment. Sherlock popped up off the sofa and scooped him up, then deposited the wriggling, growling canine on the old leather armchair. Ignoring the blue-steel stare-of-doom focused on his back, the detective took it upon himself to clean up the mess of papers he had made on the floor. Behind him, John made a confused noise, but did not move from his seat.

Once the floor had been cleared to less of a trip hazard, the detective re-tied his dressing gown and flopped into his armchair and sent off a rapid text message. Regarding his companion with a smile, he said, "Well, John, I believe that I may have finally figured out where I can locate Ms Moriarty and take her down once and for all."

John's ears and head perked up, and he focused all his attention on the man seated across from him. Sherlock leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands beneath his chin. "I mapped out all of mine and your movements as best I could, and I have discovered that she has been more focused on myself than you. The pattern of her appearances coincides more with my own travels than yours. Perhaps you might indulge in listening to how I first met her, since you cannot tell me how you did."

With a nod of his golden head, John settled more firmly into his armchair and fixed Sherlock with his most attentive gaze. The detective moved his seat a bit closer, and then placed his hands palm-to-palm before his lips. "When I was a young boy, I was sent to a private school in Belgium. I became the favorite of my chemistry teacher, Professor Moriarty, who began to admire my impressive intellect as the years went by. She tried a number of times to persuade me into joining her 'private study group'." He smiled when John sat up even straighter, his little ears straining forward and his eyes burning with an intense focus. "Needless to say, I refused her advances. Rather rudely, as I recall."

Huffing sarcastically, John rolled his cobalt eyes, as if to say 'I'm not surprised'.

Sherlock flapped a hand at him and continued speaking, "She was fired from the school when I was 12, and I never expected to see her again." Popping up from his chair, Sherlock yanked a fat manilla folder off the top of a pile of papers, which fell to the ground like autumn leaves. "She fled to Aldershot, Hampshire, for a time, which is where I can infer she met with you, considering your accent in the videos."

Even though he didn't need to respond, John still widened his eyes in surprise and nodded.

Flashing his canine companion a swift smile, Sherlock continued, "From what I can gather from the evidence available to me, she lost track of you when you enlisted in the army. Once you were no longer in her scope of influence, she sought me out again. Her discovery that you were in Afghanistan seems to be no more than a fluke of fate. I don't have enough data to be sure if she began cultivating Moran before or after learning that you had been deployed." He flipped open the folder in his hands, "I believe she cursed you because, firstly, you refused her advances and managed to elude her. Secondly, you were the largest contributor to Moran's incarceration, which cost her a very strong arrow in her disreputable quiver. The final nail in your proverbial coffin was when you refused her again, which cost her another soldier until Moran's release."

John looked thoughtful, his storm-cloud gaze focusing on the sky outside the window behind his friend in contemplation.

"I believe that she is planning something on a global scale. Something heinous, something that will bring the world to its knees before her." Sherlock examined his hands in thought. "I am going to Germany to stop her. Alone."

With a startled, complaining growl John popped to his feet and launched himself across the gap between their chairs. He landed hard with his forepaws braced against Sherlock's broad shoulders, and snapped his jaws peevishly in the detective's face. Every line of John's bestial form proclaimed the sentiment, 'you're not going without me'. Shoving at the heavy, furry body that was now crushing his lungs, Sherlock sputtered and flailed ineffectually.

"It's the only way, John!" The detective insisted. Grabbing his little friend by the ears, Sherlock forced their eyes to meet. "You still haven't fully recovered from fighting Moran! Besides, from what I can gather, I am still her main focus! As long as I go willingly, she'll leave you alone!"

With a gruff whine, John rubbed his furry head against the detective's cheek, nuzzling against the detective's neck. Sherlock threw his arms around his small friend and hugged him fiercely. "I'll be fine, John. I promise. I've already texted Mycroft for assistance." John's hoarse whining tugged viciously at the detective's heart. "I leave tomorrow morning. I'm sorry."

John snorted and made a few snuffling noises before he finally seemed to settle down in defeat. The look in his eyes told the detective that John understood he was in no condition to go galavanting through Germany after an insane sorceress. Grumbling, John reluctantly flopped down onto the floor, then trudged his way up to his bedroom.

Sherlock sighed heavily, sending an additional message to his brother requesting someone come to the flat to watch over John. When the dog returned with a blanket thrown over his back and a book in his jaws, Sherlock smiled sadly. "You're right, John. Let's make the most of things. Just in case."

**_The Present_ **

In the heart of London, as the world's only consulting detective disappears from view on a flickering television screen, a golden-haired dog raises its nose to the ceiling of a paper-strewn flat, and howls its anguish to the heavens, before collapsing in a heap. An older gentleman seated nearby rests his umbrella on the floor and lays a large hand to the quivering beast's head. He ignores the sting behind his eyes at the sight of the proud creature flopped like an unstrung marionette on the rug before him.


	12. ...And a Man Shall Rise

Mycroft was on his third glass of aged brandy when his secretary entered the room. He ignored her in favor of swallowing his drink. It wouldn't last forever, her being able to dismiss his obvious grief as a passing phase, but for now she would simply drop off whatever it was needed his signature and leave. Except, of course, the part where she didn't seem to be leaving.

It took him a moment to realize that she was visibly shaking, with her dark eyes wide and lips white around the edges. It so disturbed him to see her distraught, he lurched up from his comfortable leather seat and loomed over the table and rumbled, "What in the world is the matter?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but was cut off by the door behind her slamming open, followed by a deep voice drawling, "In all honesty, Mycroft, you should teach your secretaries to simply bow before me instead of blithering like fools."

The snifter in his hand shattered on the parquet floor of his office as all the breath fled from his lungs. There, in the doorway to his office, stood his dead brother, looking very much not-zombie-like and, perhaps, a bit skinnier than the last time he had been seen. He also wore an expression that managed to be blase, smug, and shocked all at once.

"Sherlock," Mycroft stammered out, gripping the edge of his desk to keep himself from falling over.

The younger Holmes looked slightly out-of-sorts. "You were expecting the Queen perhaps?"

"You're dead." The elder Holmes collapsed into his chair as his knees finally gave up supporting his weight.

Sherlock did not answer, except to raise one of his brows nearly to his hairline. The secretary took her leave, presumably to make sure no one would disturb them further. Once she was gone, the younger man said, simply, "Surely you knew."

"Knew what? That the last thing my men had brought to me was a video tape of my only brother leaping off a cliff like some demented lemming?" Mycroft trembled with the force of his elation, and his anger.

Now Sherlock really did look troubled. "True I sent one of your men along with the video tape, but I also sent with it a note. It warned you of the danger still present. There was another man with her when I arrived, another soldier. I asked you to gather up Mrs Hudson and John and take them here to the safehouse."

Elation and anger gave way to cold fury, "I received no note, just the video." Mycroft pressed the button on his phone intercom, "Elizabeth, find me the agent who collected the video tape from our operative in Germany. Also, get my car ready, we have some guests to pick up."

He did not wait for her to answer before standing and fixing his brother with a stern glare and rigidly pointed finger, "If there is ever a next time, you will pick up a bloody phone and call."

"Come now, brother, you know I prefer to text."

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

In three solid weeks, John had not moved. Mrs Hudson had taken to leaving two dishes for him - one of water and one of food - on the floor before his nose in the morning. When she came back up at night, the water would be partially gone, but the food would be untouched. Oh, how it pained her to see him so broken! John had always been so strong, so capable, and to see him laying there day after day, becoming thinner and thinner, was crushing.

At the end of the third week, when she came up to find him laying, glassy-eyed, in the same position, she sat herself down inches from his snout and patted his head gently. "John, dear, you can't carry on like this. Please, eat something!"

John made no motion towards the food at all, or even any indication that he had heard her. His bold eyes had taken on a gray, glassy hue and stared almost unceasingly into the dark grate of the fireplace. Only the slow rise and fall of the visible ribs of his chest showed that he lived at all.

Gently Martha stroked the silken fur of his ear, "Oh, John. I'm so sorry, dear."

The sound of the door downstairs opening called her attention, and Mrs Hudson gathered her skirt about her and hoisted herself from the floor. She quickly crossed the room to the stairwell, and peered down at the newly arrived guest. At the bottom of the stairs stood a man in a police uniform, who glanced up at the sound of her shoes on the wooden floor.

Martha's smile of greeting rapidly disappeared at the slow, malicious grin that spread over the man's face.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Sherlock waited a full seven rings before picking up his brand new mobile. "How many times, Mycroft, must I remind you," his brother cut him off swiftly.

"Yes, yes, you prefer to text. My fingers, however, are currently busy on another task."

The detective couldn't resist the opening, "Now isn't really the time for self-pleasuring or cake eating, Mycroft."

"Shut up," the elder Holmes snapped brusquely. "My people have located the man who brought us the video and identified him as Private Tobias Gregson, once a soldier in Moran's unit."

"Who is now Detective Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard!" Sherlock snarled angrily. The car he was sitting in pulled slowly to a halt before the door of 221B Baker Street, and the detective snarled again at the sight of a police car already parked in front. "He's already here, Mycroft!"

"I am sending backup to you right now, Sherlock, please do not do anything ra..."

Ringing off without listening to his brother's caution, Sherlock leapt out of the car and bolted into the building. Pausing briefly to listen for the tell-tale sounds of human and canine habitation, Sherlock mounted the seventeen steps up to his flat. He hesitated at the door, listening to the conversation occuring within.

"You will never get away with this, Sir!" Mrs Hudson was half-sobbing.

"Be quite, old woman!" The detective almost roared.

With a hearty shove that caused the door to slam against the wall, Sherlock burst into the living room, "You should listen to her, Gregson. She is right, after all."

Outwardly, Sherlock kept up his haughty, aloof façade, but inside he took in the state of the tableau presented before him. Mrs Hudson had been struck in the face, at least once, and was now tied to a chair from the kitchen. Gregson was kneeling beside her, finishing the last tie of the knot holding her captive. Sherlock's eyes trailed to the floor nearby, where the little dog lay prone, and all the air fled his body.

John was a wreck. His bones were standing out, visible even beneath his coat, which was bedraggled and stringy from neglect. The brilliant blue eyes were dulled to ashen gray, unmoving.

Gregson took advantage of his distraction to pull the gun from his ankle holster and train it on the consulting detective. "You should have just died jumping over that stupid waterfall," the man hissed angrily. "This time there's no convenient parachute to save you."

There was pure madness in Gregson's eyes, and Sherlock raised his hands above his head as escape plans rapidly flashed through his mind. None of them were particularly plausible, although he could probably manage to slip backwards down the stairs if he tried. The Inspector stood up slowly, cocking his weapon with deliberate intent.

"Congratulations on your death, Mr Holmes."

As his arm straightened to prepare for the recoil of the gun, movement from the floor caught Sherlock's eye. Gregson pulled the trigger, and time seemed to slow as the bullet whipped straight for Sherlock's chest. It never penetrated.

A golden blur flashed upwards into the bullet's path, and John let out a loud yelp of pain as his thin body reconnected with the floor. The Inspector looked as shocked as Sherlock did as they both stared at the whimpering form between them. When both detectives raised their eyes to one another, Gregson raised the gun again and Sherlock tensed.

Snarling like a fiend, John launched himself upwards to clamp his jaws around Gregson's wrist. With a scream, Gregson fell to the ground, and his head crashed sickeningly into the stone hearth behind him. John collapsed back to the floor with a heavy sigh.

Sparing no thought for his weeping landlady, Sherlock rushed forward and hoisted the small dog gently into his lap. Smoothing a large hand over the small head, the genius felt a pair of crystal tears gently trace paths down his sharp cheeks. Eyes of slate peered up at him fondly as John lolled out his tongue in a slow pant, his tail sweeping back and forth twice.

"John, it's going to be alright. I'm here," Sherlock soothed, his deep voice rough and soft. Closing his eyes against the pain in his heart, Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's. "Everything will be fine."

Behind him, Mrs Hudson smiled through her tears and chanted softly,

_"When a man in canine shape_

_saves a friend from Death's embrace_

_so too shall friend, freed from witch's spell,_

_help a man to rise from his mongrel shell."_

A gusty sigh tickled Sherlock's pale cheek, and the detective pressed his forehead harder against the silken texture of John's head. The hair beneath him shifted as John took in a deep breath and let it out again. Sherlock dismissed the sound of movement near his leg as a sweep of John's tail.

If he hadn't, he probably wouldn't have squeaked like a six-year-old girl and skittered two feet to the right when a familiar voice irritatedly asked, "Hold on, did she just call me a mongrel?"

"You try coming up with a rhyme on the spot sometime," Mrs Hudson snapped. "By the by, would one of you two mind terribly untying me, please? I'm not as young as I used to be, you know."

Sherlock opened his eyes to find a blonde-haired man dressed in a khaki shirt and desert camouflage pants laying on the floor of his flat. As the detective watched, the man lifted his hands above him and flexed them before his eyes. Without sitting up, the man tilted his head back until eyes of bright sapphire met with the detective's pale green ones.

Even if he hadn't spent months staring at recordings and photos of the man before him, Sherlock would have known those powerful eyes anywhere. A brilliant smile lit the detective's face, and he practically scrambled back over to loom above the very human face of Dr John H Watson. Sighing happily, he flopped down on the sturdy body beneath him and squeezed. John made a 'hmph' noise of surprise beneath him before wrapping strong arms around the detective's shoulders and gently patting him on the back.

"Seriously, boys, this chair is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever had the misfortune to be tied to. If one of you could cut me loose before I lose all the feeling in my bum it would be marvelous."

With a hearty shove, John knocked Sherlock off his torso and lurched to his knees and made quick work of the knots binding their landlady to the kitchen chair. Straightening his collar, in order to maintain some form of dignity, Sherlock popped to his feet and helped Mrs Hudson up. Her smile lit the room as he scooped her into his arms. Martha laughed as John wrapped his arms around them both, and Sherlock's chuckle bounced around the room.

"Well," Mycroft's smug voice startled them all. Once they were all looking at him, he continued, "It seems all that is left is to get rid of the deceased gentleman bleeding on your hearth. You might wish to remove yourselves from the premises for the time being."

A swarm of men and women in black jumpsuits moved into the living room, and Sherlock bundled his landlady and friend out of the room with a hateful glance over his shoulder for his brother. Once on the landing, Martha stretched up on her toes to kiss both men on the cheek. She tweaked the end of Sherlock's scarf and John's dog tags.

"You boys run along and have something to eat. I'll make sure Mycroft doesn't bug your things." She leaned against the door of the flat and made a shooing motion with her hands.

Sherlock and John stared at one another for a long moment. The detective let loose another blinding smile and wrapped his arm around John's, tugging him down the stairs, "I discovered a Thai restaurant nearby."

John smiled boyishly and twined their fingers together, "You can't discover something that was already there."

"Of course I can," Sherlock sniffed haughtily, one side of his mouth still held up in a smirk. "I'm brilliant."

"Yes," John chuckled warmly as he closed the door behind them. "Yes you are."

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Until next time - M_o_M -


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